There is never enough time in the day to read everything that must be read, or write everything that must be written. In these days of information overload, reading a real book is a revolutionary act. Yet, it must be done, and new books must be written.
The world becomes increasingly ephemeral and must be nailed down securely between the covers of a real physical book, one that can be read in the bathtub, tucked securely in the pocket of one's khaki expedition vest, perused upside down in the International Space Station, flapped effectively at approaching predators and hurled at advancing armies of literary critics.
Only by revealing our souls on the blank pages of an incipient book can we make sense of the bewildering archives tucked safely and often irretrievably in our temporarily accessible brains. Writing is the archaeologist's trowel I use to prise out the meaningful bits of experience, hold them up to the cold light of dawn and anoint them with meaning.
Write until it hurts.