is to start writing. And in that first, high horror nosedive into the white page you’ll never be more alone. Lonely like the wolf calling from a Teton ravine. Lonely like Custer waiting for his relief company to ride over the Bighorn hill. And it never gets any easier, teetering over the first few lines. But at least it scythes us even. Heroes, hopeless and hapless, we’re all alone at the desk, with nothing but the neuron fizz making our fingers flash cold.
