Today I went through the entire agony and ecstasy of writing. The day I decide to resume my writing, as something that has been longingly gazed at, coveted almost, for months now.

I sat down in front of Thomas Jefferson, the trusty (rusty) typewriter, and began to ponder in print. What is my main problem with the amorphous novel-entity at present? I brain-stormed as fast as two fingers could type (coming from a computer age I find it impossible to touch-type on old, old typewriters. You try it sometime). I racked my brain, I dredged the depths of my consciousness.

I could not find the answer to my problem. Riddled with self-righteous and suitably bosom-heaving angst, I paced to the window, stared disconsolately from it. It was all too difficult, I declared in the depths of my soul. I would never find the answer. I would never manage it. I would never ever ever in a million years see my name in gold leaf on a cover.

Yet I turned back to the stiff and unwieldy instrument. I tapped a few more letters. I thought a little. I engaged in conversations with half my brain while the other half gnawed away like a rabid hyena. I itched to leave polite society for the close corner containing my brain on paper.

It's like a drug, writing. It's habit-forming. And I'm hooked once again.