Hank,
Sometimes it flows. Just like you wrote about. Sometimes it flows uncontrollably, spews violently and it doesn't stop until my fingers want to bleed and splinter. Sometimes I have it and I don't want it, because it is overpowering and controlling, like a woman with a checkbook. Sometimes I have to find the nearest pen and receipt or paper bag. But sometimes it's there, and I know it's there, but it wont come out. It can be a stubborn fucker in there and no amount of cajoling or bribing will get it to emerge.
I wonder if you had this. This barrier between your desires to create and your body's desire to be futile. If it doesn't come, give up you say. If you have to stare at a typewriter or computer screen, it's not for you. But I can't. I simply can't stop. Just like you couldn't stop. You wrote on your death bed, of cats and betting on horses. You knew it was something deeper than "just stop" and sometimes I wish it wasn't. Sometimes I wish I could relax or sleep instead of drinking scalding coffee at two in the morning while pulling my hair out to get something on paper. So were you talking to me when you said QUIT? Should I take up card collecting or scrap booking? No drink or woman's love or wealth, right? You knew, Buk. You knew and I know. We know the power and I can't stop. Won't stop. You never did.