I made a comment recently that writing feels a bit like finger painting to me, like pure and simple play. I even recognize the childish glint in my eye after finishing a piece, as if to say, “I know you look at this as a scribbled mess, but I can see the worlds inside. See? No? Here. (Rip off and toss aside the easel paper.) I’ll try another one!”

Writers are like the kids in preschool who never get tired of finger painting. You see them at the easel every day. It’s just so much fun moving the paint around and seeing what you come up with.

Some finger painting rules apply to writing as well. You should put on a smock because you have to be willing to make a mess. When you mix canary with crimson and just a touch of cerulean, you could come up with something that’s never been seen before. But not everything you create is worthy of going on the fridge.