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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