The blank page would when a staring contest against me. The blinking cursor is a flashing tease, disappearing and reappearing, reminding me that I have not written a thing. Performing its magic trick every 1 and 2 beats as if it's tapping its foot impatiently. I've found rants much easier to write then my stories. And, yet, these are characters I love. Many, whom, have grown and branched out into directions I could not have foreseen. I can clearly visualize the scenes, dialogue, and most of all the actions. However, I still have not found my voice, my center. The task of putting the words down, to remove them from the only home they have ever known, is the closest I'll come to torture. Writing well removes all joy and peace; each finger feels ten tons and the part of my brain that translates the fluid images to letters is often bottlenecked. The flow of information is so backed up that whatever does make it out on the page is something I am normally unsatisfied with. This undertaking stands as a California Redwood and all I have to cut it down with is a haring.
And, yet, once again, I keep trying because these are stories that I love and want to share with other fellow readers. Thus, in closing I'll leave you with a quote by J. R. R. Tolkien.
"The Prime Motive was the desire of a tale-teller to try his hand at a really long story that would hold the attention of readers, amuse them, delight them, and at times maybe excite them or deeply move them."
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