Each day is a struggle. I love silence and serenity. I love the swishing of leaves and the scratching of the pen over white sheets. I love introversion. And a wholesome solitude. But all that is impossible. I must struggle to put down my words in the midst of the unending industry and a plethora of busyness that tends to punctuate our modern lives. I must make my characters sizzle and come alive on stark white pages, but I fail. I am caught up in this real world that seldom means much to me. I am like a Bedouin. Running from one water well to the other. From one caravan to the other. In search of the elusive. The pure. The wondrous. In search of that which gives meaning to my life. Words. Piquant. Coquettish. Quaint. And impeccable. Words. Nothing, but words….