We procrastinate because, before we write, it’s all infinite possibility, but once we’ve actually written, we are harnessed, prisoners of our own limitations, our meager gifts… But then, finally, there comes a turning point. Finally, it is more difficult and painful not to write than to write. The not-writing feels untenable, unbearable. The feeling, for me, is a kind of exquisite despair. Here goes nothing, I think to myself. What do I have to lose? Pen poised over paper, the world recedes. And I remember again—seven books into this writing life and I still need to be reminded—that this is what it’s all about. One word connecting, leading, to another, then another. A thought forming on the page. An internal coherence revealed. After a good writing day, I tell myself that it shouldn’t be such a struggle. It’s so simple, really. Just sit down. Why fight this daily battle? But maybe––just maybe––the fight is necessary. Maybe the fight is where we crack ourselves open, push against our edges, shut down the voices that tell us what we can’t do, and move into the only place worth exploring, which is to say, the unknown.