How do we set our minds to the page?
Every time I look at my writing shelves - burgeoning with folders and notebooks of half worlds and half-formed things - I get stunned. I am quieted by the cacophony of ideas. I can't find a foothold. I stare; I freeze; my mind aches, my fingers itch. I feel I should do something. I should fill a binder with winged and beating things.
Yet I walk away with aching and I wander aimless, not wanting to lose myself in the words of others but in the words of me.
I grope and gasp for an avalanche of my words but I have yet to find the breaking.
My fingers could tear hair in their frustration. I am lost!
How, how, I wail, gnash teeth - how do I give birth to an endless stream?
Suddenly, in the silence between the thunder, I hear: