The blank page. Sand on a campfire. If anything can extinguish the nearly indefatigable spirit of an aspiring writer, it is 24 lb. Bright White Bond. Or perhaps the pale glow from a computer screen.
On the bus I construct labyrinthine yarns involving myriads of people whose lives are interconnected by fate or love or religion or serendipity or a cold cup of coffee. I direct movies that finally stab issues like today versus yesterday versus tomorrow in the heart. That ragged man leaning against the statue of James Joyce – I know his life. Let me tell it to you. It’s a comedy. No, a musical. It’s much more Oklahoma than An American in Paris. You’re going to love it. And then I get off the bus. I take the pencil out from behind my ear. 24 lb. Bright White Bond. An empty street. And another day without writing.
