i have a voice.

in all my years of writing, i never have had issues with "finding my own voice".

never.


but recently, i seem to have to scrabble on the bare rocks of my grasp on language, the landscape of the grasp of the language, when it had been lush before.

or maybe that simply was what i had needed, what i required, nothing more.


maybe i had been living in a desert and had survived on "locusts and wild honey" - and had never tasted the literal joys of having a christmas feast complete with choclate pudding. though - how is that possible?

do i question myself now, after this many years of writing? or is it truly writing?

had i been very simply wringing metaphorical water from the rocks of the language desert that i thought was pure oasis?


now why do i question this?

because someone else told me "it" - my writing - is not good enough?

is it - CAN it, rather - be bad? ahem, let me say that again: CAN it ever be bad? because you - YOU - wrote it?


hm. this, is what i call "pits of growth". pits.



because when you fall into a hole, you realise you can climb.