I was thinking about a distant cousin of mine who lives in Napa. This woman lives in the middle of a grape vineyard--a huge vineyard in the midst of hundreds of acres of grapes. But what impressed me wasn't just the scenery. It was, rather, that she seemed content. It occurred to me that I haven't met that many contented people, and I don't think I have ever met a contented writer. I keep wondering if it's even possible.
After all, I am always unhappy if I'm not writing. And when I am writing, I am not finished yet, and so I am wanting to write more and finish. But I never ever want to be finished because then I am not writing.
And there is always some doubt. What if I am only imagining that what I'm writing is really worth writing? And who can say what is worth, for what it's worth, and if worth is worth anything?