A visit from John Updike.

Usually writing comes relatively easy to me. 

That doesn't mean that I don't labor over what I write and perseverate over re-writing or storm and stress and strain over what I do.

But somehow I've learned along the way to trust myself and my output. That no matter how flawed words written are, they are light-years better than words un-writ. In other words, I've learned to treat the writing I have to do with a Nike-like attitude. I believe it is better to just do it.

This morning, however, I am feeling a bit intimidated by this space.

It's because I've been reading Updike. Specifically some of his "Olinger Stories."

Then a wise friend pointed me in the direction of a story he published in "The New Yorker" back during the summer of 2003.

It's called, "The Walk with Elizanne."

Reading it is a punch in the face. 

Updike can put a novel's worth if information into a sentence. And along the way, if you fancy yourself a writer, he can make you feel like shit.

Like running against Usain Bolt.

Of course, I can make all kinds of excuses and arrive at all sorts of rationales. Updike doesn't have to write about artificial intelligence and technology systems. He's not on deadline and most-often is not inhibited by demands of space and time.

Still.

I will try to be better.