Communication taxes me. The first words never line up, and by the time I sort those out, I never remember what I wanted to say or how to go about it--assuming I ever knew. I usually set out to say something inparticular; you usually receive some unrelated topic. It only came to me in the process of squeezing out a few words along the lines of my original thought. The flow of the sentence brings me to some accidental meaning. I didn't intend it, but the words worked well. These spurious little lines mature--nudging out any vestages of my original purpose.
I labor over each line and word. Is that how it should be?
Arrogance slows me, I think. If I can't say this in such-and-such a way, then I simply can't say it. Thus if I'm to write anything, I must plunge myself into the hours of heating, casting, hammering, reheating, hammering, cooling. I wish I were free of it.
No; I do not. Rather, I would escape my shallow arrogance. A different Master would give me something solid to set my pen to. I could endure the toil. Though I must confess, I do not know that way.
