I like writing. I know to say this is echoing every person who’s put their pen on the page. The scratch of the quill, the click of the keys, is familiar to any storyteller. But I join the refrain, shouting my compliments to the activity that pleases me for hours.

I like that the page listens to me. I like that it doesn’t interrupt. It beckons me, whispering its honest criticism of my tales. It’s like dancing on waves. Skipping under leaves. A joy that expresses me like no other. An insatiable desire to be heard and believed. The ultimate catharsis.

I dislike writing. The tedious sentences that never quite find the correct word. The complete lack of originality and belief that nothing I do will be different from the rest. The endless blank page, blinking its obtrusive cursor at me.

I dislike editing. I dislike free writing. I dislike trying to craft a story when no words shake loose from my pencil. I dislike having a voice but unable to express it so having a voice becomes pointless altogether. Worse than not having tried express it at all.

But then it clicks and I like writing again. Like the tide this continues. Ebbing and flowing until I close the journal. Close the computer. And then you join me, as you come to my last phrase.