"Writing is easy, All you have to do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead."
The pundit who said that must have known whereof he spoke. To many, writing is an abstract undertaking that doesn't require any real work. It entails nothing more than furring the eyebrows, rubbing the chin, tapping the fingers, pacing the aisles, muttering incoherent words, fidgeting on a chair, sitting immobile for hours on end, staring at the ceiling or blankly into space.
It is a hazy profession that offers few tangible rewards, if at all; a choice not often taken as it barely puts food on the table or a shirt on one's back. It is a constant wrestling with thought that sucks strength and dissipates the intellect; an incessant grappling with words that emaciates the spirit and takes one's breath away.
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