I wrote earlier that the book must become like an appendage to me – an appendage of mine – a real part of me.  It’s easy for me to write when suffering, when in distress; more difficult when I’m angry or upset; and most difficult of all when I feel a little dull and listless.  It’s at these times that it feels like I’m grasping for words, and everything seems so intentional and a little forced.  Authenticity is important, that I’m conveying what I’d like to convey, and expressing myself fully and accurately, and with room for a little literary or stylistic flourish.

These are the moments – when I’m feeling a little enervated or listless – which are the hardest to write through.

I suppose the answer is just to keep writing.  I sometimes think however that if there’s a particular scene that I have in mind, the first “disclosing,” or the first time that I open to the world provides the best opportunities for success.  Maybe that’s a little clumsy, but I mean, I have an idea in mind, maybe in some ideal form, and I think if I turn my mind to it, I should be in a state of excitement, that I should perceptive, attuned, and of course fully able to express all the subtleties of the moment or scene, without getting carried away and without an affected style.  But then of course, I think if I wait that long, when will the book ever be written.