For a writer, there is either writing or the existence of a great discontent, teetering on the edge of misery.

While writing can be an arduous and trying endeavor, one filled with sleepless nights and frantic days, handwringing and hair pulling, it is not in the least compared to the destructive nature of not writing.

When one doesn’t write, the words — denied in their purpose — linger within, swirling in our souls, forever waiting to be written. We feel their restlessness as our own, unable to be quelled by form or manner.

As such, writers know that, beyond all else, one has to write regularly and often (this can be read as daily) and that one’s writing time must be claimed with an iron grip and unwavering dedication. 

For a writer who doesn’t write is —

A river unflowing.

A fire unburning.

A light unshining.

And what kind of existence would be left for one such as this?