I spend too much of my time worried that writing is this great and monstrous gift that (for reasons unknown) has been given to me and is likely to be taken away any moment now. I have forgotten that most things that are really beautiful seem natural and like a coincidence when they're actually a product of incredibly hard work. I may not feel like I did any work to gain what little talent I possess, but all of this is merely the result of the fact that I have spent my entire life until this point buried up to my eyebrows in the written word. Of course some of the style was going to rub off on me.
Like any skill, it requires practice and patience, and I can't expect to yell "open sesame" at a cave I only deign to visit every so often and find it filled with shining nuggets of wisdom, verbal gems, and pearly turns of phrase. I have to work at amassing my own treasure. Waiting around for my shy Muse to pop out her head is pointless and I'm doing myself a disservice and discrediting what was actually years of hard, undercover work on my part. I have forgotten that it never seemed like work only because I loved it with a naiveté that I can no longer claim.
What I make of those years of devotion is now up to me.