The page is blank, the mind is dull—waxen, even—and the day appears bleak, all because the words aren’t flowing, the ideas aren’t cogent, the plot seemingly vaporized, and five o’clock isn’t coming anytime soon.
The thrill’s not in the quill.
It’s like all those times in the Bible when all looks doomed, “but then” God arrives and crushes the enemy, “but then” He arrives and saves a soul, pops open cell doors, opens blind eyes, raises the dead.
But then—not out in the battlefield but in your writing nook—voilà!
Sparks fly off the keys as nouns perform, verbs whiz, adjectives define, conjunctions segue, and adverbs (Well, you don’t want to use any of those, do you? They’ve become the black sheep of the vocabulary and something I will defend at a relatively, voluminously, superficially, unpunctually later date.)…
The paralysis is vanquished. The Thrill of the Quill has returned…
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