Thomas Mann said writing is harder for writers than it is for other folks. I agree. . . sometimes. 

It's probably because people who work with words often ask themselves, "Am I a real writer?" The answer to that question changes from day to week to month, at least for me.

When I sense my voice reaching inside a reader's head in such a way that it filters through to the reader's interior conversation, I am convinced I am a real writer.

When I am in a private panic, worried that the clarity and focus of my words has momentarily escaped me, I don a mask of frustration and talk to myself.

Crazy, huh? Yet, Marilyn vos Savant claimed in a recent Parade article that scientists now agree auditory processing starts at the ear. The right ear is geared more toward speech and the left ear is attuned toward music. I try to listen to myself with both ears and to my fellow writers the same way.

Italians declare, "Los poetes son los ebrios de Dios." Poets are God's drunkards.

Again, I agree. I know I have been intoxicated with words since childhood. They are my passion, they inebriate me. When words are flowing I feel lightheaded, high on cadence and sound. I can hear their color, I can smell their flavor, I can taste their weight. 

In fact, it's time to stop this entry and become again a real writer.