Writing is one of the most satisfying things I know.

It's satisfying partly BECAUSE a lot of what I write sucks.

Suckage is only the beginning. When a thought or feeling matters, you keep coming back to it.

What's more satisfying than - shade by shade, degree by parsec - realizing the truth of the feeling deep within that a thing mattered and you had this thing to say and could say it? At first your efforts proved it didn't matter and/or you couldn't say it.

But you kept fingering the scab the world had placed over this expression. Sometimes the scab arrives before the wound. Sometimes clear skin becomes a scab, and then blood, and then a cut, and then flint, and then an arrow fired in tune.

That's what saying something well is like.

It's satisfying to realize you have such good aim. As it were. The thunk of the arrowhead in the tree, split in the center of its found knot, resounds through the whole clearing for a sentience listening.