A cold empty desk— home to nothing but a single sheet of paper.
The paper —just as empty as the desk.
Has nothing upon it but a name.
Tapping pencils and scratching my chin,
waiting for the words to flow from the lead tip onto the page.
The absence of ideas and inspiration— leaving me alone in the emptiness of my mind.
Looking around the room to find something that can spark the imagination.
But alas, few things stand out.
Trinkets that tell a story.
But alas, the story’s spark fades away
And I’m left with
And the things that do generate a spark that will burn out.
Watching the clock— waiting for a break.
Time moving slower than ever.
I begin to doodle
I begin to think
I begin to relax.
A story unfolds on the paper in front of me.
Characters and adventures they go on ooze onto the page.