when a writer can’t write, she erases everything. nothing is good enough.
she can’t think of words or how to spell or a synonym for the word “empty.” the words are there, but the action isn’t.
she realizes the use of color in her writing was ripped out of her by an omnipotent, invisible thief. (but it was so long ago now?)
but the buzz she used to feel flow from her finger tips is missing.
and the cramp in her hand doesn’t ever go away. it used to dull when the sentences started flowing, when the paragraphs rise and fall like the tides. she was in the zone; happy, free, comfortable, a warmth in her chest.
instead it feeling so bad that she feels like wants to stop and quit forever.
she tries to convince herself it will all come back to her in time.
a writer is meant to write, right?
but to her, every effort feels hopeless and fleeting, like she might never be able to find it.
she tells the world that she can’t, that she’s just not capable or good enough.
maybe she needs to travel the world or spend more time in nature or do more ‘activities.’
is she in her own way?
will she ever find it—that feeling of fullness? that feeling of it “fitting.”
“if she keeps at it…”
“it’s out there somewhere…”
“it’s within reach, she just has to find it…”
“just don’t give up….”
there’s a lesson in all of this, did you get it? I’m here to tell you.
after all that turmoil and drama—she was doing it all along.
she just couldn’t see the novel through the letters.