Writing is hard. It is the hardest thing that I have ever enjoyed. You hear stories of writers who have to become knee deep in alcohol to reach the depths that their writing demands of them. I haven’t gotten to that level, but that’s mainly because I’m not self-depravating. Or an alcoholic.

I think I’m not.

I hope I’m not.

When it comes to writing, I don’t write about me. At least not consciously. I don’t reach down into that dark place where all the pain lies and insecurities run amok. I’ve mostly gotten over all the pangs of hurt that I’ve felt in my life. But I still find myself stuck in a rut. I struggle to write. Sometimes it pours out like a waterfall and other times I’m lucky if I can get the faucet to just drip.

I take in my surroundings and experiences and in turn I churn out messages that I hope resonates with people. Most days I’m just happy to write. There are stories that will never see the light of day. Not because they’re not good, I think…no I know, but because it’s not about the public getting to see the inside of my brain, my heart. It’s for me to get better. It is my therapy. And every now and again I’m okay letting people see the man behind the curtain.

We all struggle with whatever demon of the week and the looming big bad for the season, but not all of us have found a way to cope and overcome.

I use writing.

I take pen to paper and alleviate the stress. And on those days I get stuck in a rut, I wait. I wait until the water starts dripping. I wait for the trickle that comes out of nowhere so that I can spin a tale that will last for a lifetime or at least until the next story.

For as much pleasure as readers get from reading, writers get double that. We write to live and live to write. It’s a cyclical process that feeds our humanity and provides the energy that allows us to go on for another day.

That allows me to go on for another day.