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.