The rat (that I am) would come to question his ability to write. His words has a shifting balance and could only skim across his desired expressions. Perhaps, he thought, all writers go through this cycle. A compelling habit to re-write the same sentence many times until, with some frustrations, it was good; almost great but not perfect. The rat has no doubt that he would re-write.

A thought occurred earlier in his day, “A writer should write.” It was a skill meant to be practiced, regardless of any prior talent. Jealousy over the prolific(s) was a crutch and the rat has no excuse. He should not fear originality. His words would be compared to the words of others before and after him. It would do him good to embrace each thought, word, and sentence as his own. Similarity could be a kindred soul. The rat should not feel alone.

It was a desire to create and express. He would share his completed writes and entertain any who desired. When another enjoyed his efforts, it left him with a wonder glow within. That was when he understood, the rat was a writer.

There will be no more doubt, squeak!