If you watch a writer in a coffee shop, you won’t be particularly impressed by her work. You might not even notice that she’s working. The external act of writing is a mundane thing. It is quiet, often deathly so. ten fingers tapping long sighs and silent swearing insomnia cure You have to slice a writer in half to reveal the invisible truth. Writing is sudden bursts of brilliance racing ahead with yellow-jersey speed while you labor to catch up with tricycle typing fingers. It’s a magnificent ache and pointless pursuit sandwich smothered in what-the-hell-was-I-thinking sauce. It’s creation and destruction. Hope and despair. Love and love and more love. And…