If only I could scrape words onto paper with the same kind of abandon I slop paint onto a canvas, if only I could stir words together the way I mix colors, trying some new combination just to see what happens. There is a joy and playfulness to painting, a delicious physicality to the act. And while I do occasionally agonize over the shape of a shadow or particular curl of water, I am able to recognize that I am painting an impression of something, not trying to create an exact replica. Perhaps, if I wasn’t trying so very hard to be understood, I could find that same rhythm to writing. Perhaps I could cut every word out of the dictionary, pour them into a huge metal pot, and let chance and luck have a turn at writing something wonderful.