My writing has been up and down in the past few months. Life has interfered in a way it never has before. Outside voices have mixed with the inner knowledge that I am on the right path, scaring the hell out of me. Rupi Kaur’s poem came to me at just the right time. I’m slowly working my way back into the writing. But it’s completely different. I’ve gone from being able to make broad sweeping revisions at the same time as I make teeny specific alterations to only being able to fiddle with timelines or voices or snapshots of scenes. It’s frustrating and frightening that this has changed for me. I’ve even sat with the idea that maybe I am not cut out to continue writing. But that isn’t it. I want that work in my life. And I have to find a way to invite a reliable production patterns back into the process. Even if it’s different than it’s been the last 15 years, I have to believe the answer is somewhere near. I just need to find it.