Blank page, empty mind

Opened the notebook today on my lunch break, ready to dash off a few paragraphs before returning to work. I uncapped my pen, and I … just stared. At the page, at my pen, at my hands, everywhere. I looked all around for words to write, and all I found was nothing.

And I was so sure I had something to say, too.

I guess the good news here is that I put my pen in motion nonetheless. Writing about my writing is one of the stated purviews of this blog, after all. And describing and exploring my creative and expressive aridity has provided me with many miles of writing over the years. I guess I was overdue for such a session, however brief.

It is good practice for the hand, if nothing else. I all too often lose sight of the physicality of the act of writing, as distinct from the mental, spiritual and emotional aspects that get most of the attention. Maybe I’ll think of what I was going to say later.

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