There’s something intimate and impermanent about pencil that makes writing akin to sketching with sound. Pencil starts faded and fades quickly unless fixative is applied. Pencil is easy to change, as easy as the word flow once the rhythm starts sounding and the words repeat, reform, are rejected, replaced, and improvised to what sounds better. This or this, or this, or this, or maybe back again or start again. From the rush of the first thoughts made whole into picture sounds flying out, notebook bound, into scribbled lines, to the erasures, arrows, and notes of the re-imagining, refining, re-tuning, retelling. The world falls away to nothing in brief spurts of sounding the right phrase, the right feel, the right movement, the right everything and in those moments everything is perfect even when it’s not even close. That is why I write.