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Some days writing is agony. You search for those earlier linkages, patterns and meaning that can now be assembled and presented on the page. Instead of images you see disconnection, and type nothing.

The nothingness floats before you like the failed start you are striving for. Why can't I pull together those thoughts that came to mind while listening to a song yesterday in the car, or last week when I read that passage? They come to me in compelling dribs and drabs which vanish as quickly as they appear. I see the connections between plot, character and story with such keen intensity when I am not writing, but when I sit to reproduce and unite them at the keyboard....nothing.

There is only a gnawing pressure at my breast which reminds me that the real work is still before me.

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