You can have time and patience and words and yet nothing will unravel into story. You can make up your mind that you have no words and don’t have the least knowledge of arranging them nor ever will. You can click away years of labor as unsalvageable trash knowing that nothing you write will ever be better.
And it’s then that the devils dance in your mind hissing their tales of pain and complaint and intriguing with wonderful horrible stories of where they have been and you, they will warn, are standing on edge and just about ready to fall.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology