I was about to go pull the kayaks into the storage shed when I was struck with an urge I hadn’t felt, not truly, in years. The urge, the want, felt almost orgasmic, like being inches away from someone’s mouth, knowing you are about to kiss them for the first time. It was the real and true urge to write—not the “sit down and make yourself write” feeling, in which you perform a number of tricks to start the words flowing, if they ever do, but the desperate desire to actually grip a pen and watch as ink travels over the page. The actual urge to say something.
