When I penetrate the “flow” of writing, everything else makes sense.
My thoughts, sporadic as they are, line up. A trajectory. A set path. Something that works, for once in my life.
When I write, I have control
I am on the steering wheel, miles away from the noise of world, far removed from my sense of passing time, and driving on.
When I enter that state of mind, through torments, hunger, haters and discouraging partners, I drive on.
It’s not about speed, it’s merely about execution—raw and sustained execution.