Writing is like anything. It’s like breathing or smoking and watching how the smoke rises around your face then looking at the make of your vehicle, a GMC, and noticing the license plate says vacation land. I don’t believe it’s always meant to be hard. Sometimes it’s meant to be what you see. What you feel. What you remember. I know, remembering what you felt can bring on the terribly difficult and that portion can certainly be hard. But it’s all right there. Waiting. It’s a matter of doing it. All of it. Just like anything else.
You ever walk up a flight of concrete stairs and wonder who poured the cement? How long until it starts to crack? And how many winters it can survive until the cement needs to be ripped out and new steps need to be created?