Historically I’ve considered writing necessary but very stressful–an albatross that I could not escape but never quite embrace. But more and more I’ve felt not so much an elation as a contentment when I’m working. Today it’s lightly raining outside, I’m armed with a very large americano, an Italian sandwich, and headphones playing “Money Jungle,” and I’m set up at the corner table at the corner cafe on my block watching my neighbors race to work. At other tables kids are playing with legos (I live opposite a school) and here I sit, playing with words. I have many worries–who does not?–but I no longer question my choice of profession. It is the biggest of reliefs.