The pen flowed freely on the page. Considering she had spent the past few months begging her muse to ignite something in her, writing alone at night was a pleasant change, and came miraculously easy.1
Writing had always come easy. There was no mistake. She had a talent, and a passion that burned through her blood like a furious inferno, never to be doused, only ever to be ignited further by her dedication to evolve in her writing.2
Distractions had boggled her mind since the beginning of time, or so it felt. She had never spent so much time away from the written word, and when it came to facing the demons of her life, she had crawled into her tiny burrow of safeness and neglect.3
The challenge now was staring at her blank in the face. In the darkness of wasted thoughts and talent, and though she tried to piece together the words that pleaded to be splayed across the blank page; nothing but endless self pity and creative self destruction came from it. 4
Writing became a word that ran her blood cold, instead of warming her heart, and her depression internalized into a void of denied emotion and creativity. No matter how many times she took pen to paper, all that spewed from her pen was either dry ink, or ink that bled so thick into the pages, it clotted together, and formed one big stained disaster. 5
“Write everyday.”6
“Write in my notebook.”7
“Free write.”8
“Schedule your writing.”9
“Plan-Plot-Write.”10
She tried every cheat and tip in the book to flog herself into writing. When all she needed to do was to understand her own emotional priorities, and ignite the flame of passion in more vibrant ways.11
So she brought a new pen, and pulled out her old, purple notebook; vowing to make an effort in her writing, despite whatever emotionally draining challenge had been thrust upon her.12
In the early morning, as the sun was dawning into a new day, she sat at the table, shattered and sleep deprived. Opening her notebook, she flicked the written pages aside settling on a fresh lined page, and picked up her soft gripped pen. Now comfortable with her prerogative, she began to write.
Author notes
Just a little mish mash I wrote at the table in the early morning. It has a few errors probably, but mainly is to be seen as a free write.
Blair
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