the plan
The plan was to describe the vague images in sentences simple and true. I struggled mightily to work past each clumsy first attempt, only to be defeated by the awkward phrasing that followed. The plan changed: I would write instead about whatever came to mind without censoring the flow or editing in the aftermath — no pressure, just write until the pen stops — but found that the images had eluded capture. I could not even begin.
I stare at my notebook, its pages marred with my frustrated scrawl and line upon line scribbled, sputtering, and ultimately scratched out. I will disjointed images to coalesce into words and sentences and paragraphs. Nothing. I meditate on it, analyze it, channel positive chi, ignore it, come back to it, beg it. Nothing. I flounder unhappily and doodle in the margins while I struggle for anything — anything — to take substance and find its way to my fingertips.
I stare at a fresh page. I wait.
