When I write, I am trying through the movement of my fingers to read my head. I’m trying to build a word ladder up to my brain. Eventually these words help me come to an idea, and the I rewrite and rewrite and rewrite what I’d already written (when I had no idea what I was writing about) until the path of thinking, in retrospect, feels immediate. What’s on the page appears to have busted out of my head and traveled down my arms and through my fingers and my keyboard and coalesced on the screen. But it didn’t happen like that; it never happens like that

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Heidi Julavits, The Folded Clock (2015)