I've had my coffee, I've smoked my ciggarette and I've changed into comfortable pants that I would be prefectly content sitting in for hours, while I write. And yet, the words don't come. The images and ideas that have been restlessly waiting to be released from my mind have abandoned me the moment I sit down to focus. Why is this? And why does it always seem so tangible, save for when I actually try to get a hold on it?
How frustrating this is! The story is there, locked away in my head somewhere with a promise of beauty and eloquence. I can see the characters; feel what I want them to do and say and be. I swear I can make it come to life, I can. It just feels as though the words are playing with me- almost mocking me, and making me work harder for my own imagination.
Somehow I will do this. I will write this book, because-- well, because I just have to. I'm sure I'll go insane if I don't. One day, I'll see my name on that cover and smile at a dream that found its way to reality.
