I am frustrated. Frustrated because the right words, the words I see in my mind’s eye won’t come fourth. They’re hiding beneath layers of other thoughts, other feelings, that won’t divulge the pearls that I want. I am frustrated because the little red and green swiggly lines keep popping up all over the page. I don’t want to have to stop typing to go fix itty-bitty spelling errors. I am frustrated because no matter what I seem to write, it’s never good enough.

I am frustrated because I call myself a writer, and when I need them most, the words don’t come to me.

Maybe you’ve felt this, too, at some point. The idea is right there, a tangible thing, and no matter how you reach for it, you can’t quite touch it. And maybe when you do finally grab hold of it, the way you describe your idea isn’t the way you’d thought it’d be.
I bet you’re a writer too.
I bet you’ve felt the simple joys of a good piece, and the screaming fury at the piece you’d intended to be beautiful.
I have.
But doesn’t that moment when the words come taste so much sweeter, after tasting the bitter?
So maybe, after all your frustration, the dazzling piece you’ve created is only dazzling because you know what it was to have it be dull.

Does that make frustration good?

Is our frustration what makes a story?

I’d never thought.

Either way, my words have come, and maybe they aren’t what I’d thought they’d be, but they’ve come to me, and as Robert Frost once said, “and that has made all the difference.”