What light through yonder window breaks – its a blank page of paper and I’ve nothing to write. It happens from time to time, the brilliance (or in my case mud) that leaps from your fingers to fill the page stops. It isn’t often a fire hose, it is more often a trickle. Something that triggers a response, like a line from Dylan Thomas, or Faulkner. But today it is simply writing down the fact that there is nothing there.
Perhaps I should pontificate about the excellence of white space or the need in the world for blank paper. The very things that a writer would argue sitting in front of page 1 of a novel, for a 200th day waiting for the torrent to start.
But I can’t. Instead I am just going to stop here and forget today even started.