I'm on this road.  Heading to a place searched out on purpose.  The writing life; that's the place.  I get a taste of it here and there, a glimpse into it's interior where my words and thoughts fly from my fingers and onto the page.  Where the muse dances with glee at my work and lowers her head in frustration when I can't sit and pay attention to her.  Sometimes, she stands at the far end of the road and I'm breathless just thinking how far away she seems.

Why do I write?  I write to give birth to strings of sentences not read before.  I

nourish the words; agonize over their health and well-being.  I prepare them to leave the nest, and then release them to the world and can only hope for their success out there, down that road and away -  around the bend.