I have rarely been an eloquent writer. Perhaps I rush through words too quickly, often carelessly choosing and oddly phrasing my hasty thoughts on a page. Or, maybe I fear losing inspiration and throw a mouthful on a sheet of paper hoping to catch a little truth. And yet, I wonder if I am simply waiting for the words to speak to me. I typically pardon my numerous errors by the joys of beautifully discovered phrases. I have yet to sustain my inadequacies for a whole book, the joys too sparse to relieve the guilt of spilled ink. On great occasion, I catch a fleeting glimpse of words on the wind, grasping at the possibility of a complete picture. On those days, my guilt is reprieved finding my words just right.
