It is not easy. It is work. There is a blank page. The screen. Nothing is there. A stillness. A quiet. You have to break the quiet.
The hour is late. The lamp casts a soft, warm pool of light on the desk. It shows the dust on the table. It shows the cold coffee in the cup. The story is nestled. A man stands on a road. Nothing else happens. He stands there for hours. On the page and in my head.
A word is needed. A word to comfort him. To tell him why he is there. The word is not in the mind. The mind is a blank page too.
I get up. I walk to the window. The street is dark. The street is quiet. The man on the page is still there. He will not move until I find his word.
I go back to the desk. The cursor waits patiently. The words are shy. They are not fighting. Maybe they are sleeping? I put down a word. Not the right one. But it is a word. I put down another. And then the right one comes. It is small. It is solid. It is “waiting.” The man is waiting for home.
It is a good feeling. To build something true from nothing. To take a whisper and make it a safe place. To put a thought down and see that it is there. On the page. A thing you can look at and trust.
This is what I like. The work. The gentle work. The turning of quiet into a conversation. The finding of the right word. The small, solid understandings.
The page fills. The story is no longer stuck. A good day’s work.
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