“I’d like to write about writing,” I wrote in the email. As soon as I sent it, I half winced to myself and sucked in a quick breath. Is this a thing? Will readers and writers alike be interested in my inner monologue as I sort through the writing challenges? Do you want to know the self-doubt that reflects off the sunny window onto my blank screen? Well, here goes! Writing about writing is beyond difficult. There’s a fine line between metacognitive thinking and a stream of consciousness, and I fear the latter. I picture the words as they tumble out of my brain and bounce onto the paper, not really sticking to anything, but merely lying on the surface, waiting to sink in. What if they don’t sink in? I imagine the letters joining together and scattering off the page when I’m not looking, acutely aware that they may never make any profound impact. Or will they? The words ebb and flow, and so I keep trying. Is writing just blissful ignorance? If so, may I never stop. We’ve all b...