I talk out loud – creating conversation.
I visualize facial expressions – squinting, mouth tightening, furrowing brows.
I observe me – my breathing, my heartbeat, my hands clenching.
Then I listen.
Where is this taking me? What should happen next? How will this all come together?
And then there is silence. I wait. But the voices are mute.
I try to force them, but it’s no use. They will not be persuaded by desperation.
I know the story. I know what needs to be told. But there are no words in the silence. I can’t write them if they are not ready. I can only wait.
And waiting is hard.
Waiting makes me question my choices. Makes me question if I truly deserve to be an author. It shakes my confidence. Induces panic.
Because they are waiting. Wondering what is next. When it will be done. They’re all waiting for me to… write. And so am I.
And then it happens. The voices come rushing at me, so overwhelming I don’t know where to begin… I want to cry. Tears of relief. Tears of joy. A rush of adrenaline. Elation courses through me.
There’s a pounding in my chest because I can see it. I can hear it. The story that’s been waiting, dormant in its formation, is ready to finally be told.
I close my eyes, and absorb it all. It becomes everything, and nothing else matters until the final word is typed. Nothing else matters….
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