How cruel that I stammer over words
  when written by someone else… that
  my mind cannot accept a logical progression
  of ideas and emotions.

But that I write my own… then, ah then
  I can dance with the language… I can
  play with it like a father tossing a ball
  lovingly to his son… a mother teaching
  a daughter the beauties of a changing
  form… a moment of grace before my eyes.

Still, perhaps my words only mean something
  to me, for I understand my fractured
  sentences… my thought patterns… my
  lack of purpose…
  but to live and breathe in the now like a child
  writing his first word in crayon. 

I believe that it is life altering events which shape us as writers.  They guide us, though not in the romanticized manner you would expect.

When faced with the end of one’s life, I do not believe that any rational human being thinks; “I wish I had written that novel” in lieu of “I wish I had spent more time with my family”.  We do not long for the solitude of a closed room and a computer with which to create, when faced with an uncertain future.  We crave human contact.

This is the catch-22 that is writing.  It is human contact which instinctively we need to survive, as well as to lend credibility to our words, and yet the very act of writing is one which removes us from others. 

The question becomes, if human contact makes us better writers, how then does writing reciprocate?

I’ve needed to think about this for some time.  Nearly a year, in fact.