I believe I am in good company when I say writing can be a painful journey from the world of infinite possibility to the sadly inevitable. C.S. Lewis said something similar, and I have often felt this, starting with the wonderfully blank page, knowing there are infinite combinations of words with which to convey my meaning. I start with one word, then one sentence, until, suddenly, I have no choice: the next word must be a particular word; it's appearance has been decided by what's before it.
And yet, I have to write. I know perfectly well that not-writing isn't good for me. I have not-written for a while, and I notice an intellectual blockage not entirely unlike that which occurs in the intestinal area when certain people eat cheese.
So I shall write and endeavor to keep ambiguity at bay. It will be a long battle, akin to trying to free a New Orleans home from mold. Let's see where I am at Easter.
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