I try to get one or two lines down quickly.

Everything I need is within reach — my notes, my dictionary

and thesaurus, and, in fact, except for the steady accompaniment

of good light, what else am I likely to require

as I move from space to space, other than this

tough pad of paper and the stub of my pen?

But there will come a moment when my faith in

my miniature art collapses.  I can count on that; everything

will be going well, the words adding themselves up, gorging

on themselves; then I will be stopped in my tracks.


Paraphrases from the story “Segue” by Carol Shields.