The writer in me never struggles to let the words flow.
The human in which the writer lives – she’s a word hoarder.
The human wants perfection. She needs each word to be right.
She wants a guarantee that you’ll feel what she feels. See what she sees. She writes and erases. Tries again. Never satisfied. Always starting. Rarely finishing.
So the writer has to sit and wait for the human to tire herself out.