Bright White

[Cita]

So now to show up at the page, the brand new page, the empty, blank, unmarred, pristine page, with only words to dribble, poor words, in one language, monochromatic ink pooling and spooling--just chicken scratches on the white field.

Until you come along, and you want to know-- you want to see, make sense and story and even sound of the simple efforts on the now spoiled page.

Your kind eyes give meaning to the chains that lie now down, no longer twisting through me, but untangled because you are the unwitting detective exposing them; someone taught you letters at five.

You read color into the world for me.

And I, I cannot stay, for that page is soiled, over, done, no longer mine--applauded, lauded, medallion-ed, and there is no room for me there.

So I, I turn the page, turn the page and ache, ache with its bright white.

[Cita]

Just now back to civilization and have plugged myself back in, reluctantly because the real world sometimes seems more civil... BUT, thanks for your comments.  I am laughing at Joey.  What do I know of the frustrations of writing??? Oh, baby.  Let me count the ways... 

But the frustrations of publishing are TRIPLE that of writing. 

[Angela]

You write so well about the writing process.  I almost feel my block is poetic.

[Joey Delgado]

You write so beautifully about the frustrations of writing it makes me think, "How can she know about the frustrations of writing?" Great post, Miss Cita. :)

[Teresa]

The blank is painful, eh?  But no page at all is even worse.  Keep writing.