Staring at a blank page and waiting for the words to come to me. Writer’s block takes me over. Perhaps it’s kept deep inside of me, words I do not know yet. An innocent mind cannot provoke deviant thoughts without having knowledge of those thoughts. A splinter needs to drive its way into my side and make me feel…. pain, motivate me. Survive in this true world of writers. For I pretend to write, a daily task I forfeit in exchange for food, shelter, or peace. I need words and their conjured images in my head but words do not need me. I take in words and soak them into my mind. I dream of them at night and hope I can find a way of molding them into sentences similar to those of my favorite authors that make me laugh, cry, and love; they show me excitement, fear, and longing. These writers such as Andrei Codrescu, and Nicholas Evans, in his book The Loop. These poets provide an intimacy into their world.
Writers mold their words, like any true artist does; painters smear their colors on canvas. The only difference is, I have this blank piece of paper and I fear what may make its way onto it.