by Tom Swift

So little of life comes at you in sensible bits. All these noises and waves and wind and words and shades of light come at you, flow through you, at rate faster than you can possibly comprehend — it’s all too much for the senses to do much with any of it. You can coral very little into coherence. That’s what writing is: a way to make clay. You break off a chunk of the unintelligible mass, bend it, stretch it, pound it, twist it, color it, until you have some little thing that can be comprehended. You hold up your wee bit of understanding, like an infant looks to her or his parent, and say, “look at this — this is something.”