Just a though I had today:

Writing is like my mother’s kitchen sink. The drain stopper is a little dented and bent. When you want to fill the basin with water, you have to turn the spigot on for a few moments and then watch to see if the water remains stagnant or if it begins to slowly, incrementally drain away. If so, you have to wait til the water empties, adjust the stopper slightly, and try again. Sometimes you can never lock the stopper into the drain in the exact way to damn the water without a leak no matter how many times you twist and retwist it. You can end up wasting a whole lot of water—all of it unused—watching it slink away and magically disappear through the cracks.

Or like waiting on hold for about 42 minutes. Phone crushed against your ear—no speakerphone. You wait and listen to the bucolic music and the recording that intermittently recurs, “Our representatives are still helping other customers. Please, continue to hold.” All annoyance, anger, expectation dwindled to nothing more then the endless jazzy fake piano notes of the continual tune. Sometimes an occasional glitch in the recorded music makes your heart beat faster; you think a friendly representative is about to speak to you. But the music returns, not acknowledging its self-interruption, and you return to empty waiting.

When a voice suddenly materializes in your aural system, stimulating the eardrum and sending faint messages to your brain, you’ve forgotten almost everything you wanted to say as you fumble for memory and words to return to you.

I don't know why I've chose to focus on writing. As an art, acting was so much simpler.