I’ve noticed an interesting dynamic that occurs in my writing life.
When a message begins to form, it often masks as a mild depression, a sense that all is not well in my soul. Sometimes the struggle to figure out the reason for my malaise lasts for days.
And what befuddles me the most is that the very cure for what ails is the very thing I avoid—more alone time to ponder, to process, to pen. READ THE ENTIRE POST…
