He sat there, psychologically paralyzed, unable to activate his fingers because he had no words to move them. Fingers are wonderful instruments, strong, dextrous, delicate, sensitive. But like any instrument, they need the skill of a maestro to move them with grace. He had none, and thus the fingers did not touch the keys which did not place letter and words and sentences upon the screen.
“30 minutes” he mutters to himself. “I’ll give myself 30 minutes to write, to put words down. Don’t be afraid, they aren’t chiseled in stone. That’s what editors are for.”
30 minutes later and the page is blank save for a handful of conjunctions - and, or, but. No editor in the world can help that pitiful collection.
He fancied himself a writer. He really did. It wasn’t always that way, of course, as his high-school english teachers would tell you. His papers in school reeked of the Jolt cola that fueled them. All first drafts that could have been so much better if he hadn’t finished them that morning, they had little or no redeeming value. Not good enough for the school paper, not good enough for a college application essay, even he was embarrassed by them. Ask him if he liked anything he wrote in high school, and he’d say he hated it all. He wasn’t alone. He nearly failed.
“30 minutes” he mutters to himself. “I’ll give myself 30 minutes to write, to put words down. Don’t be afraid, they aren’t chiseled in stone. That’s what editors are for.”
30 minutes later and the page is blank save for a handful of conjunctions - and, or, but. No editor in the world can help that pitiful collection.
He fancied himself a writer. He really did. It wasn’t always that way, of course, as his high-school english teachers would tell you. His papers in school reeked of the Jolt cola that fueled them. All first drafts that could have been so much better if he hadn’t finished them that morning, they had little or no redeeming value. Not good enough for the school paper, not good enough for a college application essay, even he was embarrassed by them. Ask him if he liked anything he wrote in high school, and he’d say he hated it all. He wasn’t alone. He nearly failed.
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