I am fighting a deadline again for writing. A chapter in the book I can't imagine but feel compelled to write. I sit by my desk, sheaves from different drafts scattered round me like snow. I pace in my mind, restless with the slow process of imagining and believing that writing is for me. I want the ease of the paintbrush, the pencil. There, a leaf in front of me. Nothing is hidden. Every line revealed. Every shadow.
