A blank page is most intimidating. Can literary creativity be likened to stonecutting? Is deciding exactly where to start chipping away at the mental block truly the hardest part? Once the hammer hits the wedge that hits the stone, do subsequent swings flow more readily? Or does the ease with which the pen bleeds across the latter end of a canvas reflect only the knowledge that merely half of the work remains to be done? And then again, what do I know of stone cutting? And then again, what do I know of literary creativity? Can it maybe be likened more to excrement? Must piles and piles of refuse spew forth from an undiscerning pen before one enterprising muse may be permitted to sift through the filth, lifting tiny pearls of poetry from momentous volumes of… shit?
I cannot build a single statue…
I cannot fill a single page…
yet.
