It’s enough that I am writing. Allowing my pen to move smoothly across lined paper, creating shapes that mean something more than the words themselves.
I don’t think.
I don’t struggle.
I just let the pen move across the lined paper, not stopping until a cramp in my hand reminds me to pause.
But in that pause, I wait for the block. The block that will make me stop and doubt myself, my words and my progress. The moment when no words will come or worse still, the moment when the words will swirl in my head and get caught in my pen, poised as it is above the paper.
I want to get up and make myself a cup of tea during that pause, hoping that the simple act of moving will banish any block I feel might be coming on. But a part of me is afraid that if I move from my spot, my pen might stop forever.
Am I afraid of the space between the lines?
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