Making myself sit down to write, then getting lost in my own universe of darkness and despair until reality yanks me back. It feels cruel to call myself a writer when all I can produce is half-written drifting cobwebs of thought. It feels too hopeful to say I'm a reader, as I get swept away and lose sight of where the page ends and fantasy absconds with my attentions.
I will say this; I worship at the altar of the word. Expression with sound and emoted description has always fascinated me. I come for whimsy, I come for delight. I come for horror dripping in ghoulish blight.