Writing is like great sex.
Seducing the words across the mind, conjuring them up from the deepest of one’s folds, letting yourself be seen naked and furtive and ready and willing, minute after exciting minute, with everything else relegated, the hush and the roaring, the pull-push of pain and pleasure, until the brilliant explosion, the climax: a haunting work, told and retold, a poem from the muses’ lips. You lay exhausted; your mind, your body, your spirit milked of every drop of… everything. Yet, in all this, paradoxically, re-energized, raring to go again and again. And again.