My hands are numb from the cold lack of inspiration. Fingers tickle the keys, yet they feel a thousand miles away. I had so many great ideas on my run yesterday. Why does the proximity of actually writing scare the ideas away? Why am I so afraid?
The ideas never remain mine. Characters steal away narrative, which mutates into an arch a inver saw coming, rendering me audience member, but still its mine. Isn’t it? There still my six characters? They must have poor eye site, because they never see me, their author.