The words are twisted, dancing upon my tongue like fiery tornadoes. I long to spill them out and spurt them over the page to make a pretty story, but the desire for that is all. I don’t really want to write. I know I should, I know they want me to; but I don’t feel like it. And my accounts are meaningless, anyway.

Somebody, or perhaps nobody, once told me that writing shouldn’t be done unless there is a great demand in your body for it. Unless your heart is dripping with shame; unless your eyes are searing with jealous anger; or unless your head is blissfully napping on the soft underside of a cloud with the one you admire most.

So I won’t push it. I promise. That’s what I’m going to do: wait for that moment, the moment when that desperate desire to write swims into my veins and leaves me with a raging hunger to form characters, which in turn will form a story so beautiful you will never want it to end.

But right now, that’s just not going to happen.