I still struggle as a writer. Most days my writing feels a bit feral, with words speeding by like wild cats—too fast for me to grasp the ones I want. Or the ink spills from my pen in messy smudges that might as well be a child’s finger painting. If I’ve bothered to outline, the ideas rove past any margins I’ve set and the words oscillate between the edges of the paper, hitting every line, roughly skittering against any plan I’ve had. I’ve been told there are two kinds of writers—plotters and pantsers, or more updated terms—architects and gardeners. Essentially, one who does it right and one who figures…