There’s the blank page, and the thing that obsesses you. There’s the story that wants to take you over and there’s your resistance to it. There’s your longing to get out of this, this servitude, to play hooky, to do anything else: wash the laundry, see a movie. There are words and their inertias, their biases, their insufficiencies, their glories. There are the risks you take and your loss of nerve, and the help that comes when you’re least expecting it. There’s the laborious revision, the scrawled-over, crumpled-up pages that drift across the floor like spilled litter. There’s one sentence you know you will save.
Next day there’s the blank page. You give yourself up to it like a sleepwalker. Something goes on that you can’t remember afterward. You look at what you’ve done. It’s hopeless.
You begin again. It never gets any easier.