" There is nothing to writing, all you do is sit down at a type-writer (perhaps a computer now?) and bleed"- Ernest Hemingway
Sounds easy enough, I have a lot of wounds, one of them should suffice, but, no. Blood clumps, congeals after a while. It's not even red on paper, its a sickly, dirty brown. Not to contradict someone better than me, but I am sure he meant it most metaphorically. Dark or light, basest or best, lampblack and crushed dyes or 0s and 1s, one can and must only write with ink. The second thing you need is strength, to make the right ridges and scratches on the paper or to bring the binary to heel with buttons. Thirdly you need something, anything or someone speaking silently, for you to listen.
Are these things absolutely vital to writing, of course not. You can just scratch and scribble like me, without beginning, middle or end, perfect purgatory to perfectionists, just putting thoughts into words, always alliterating, ameliorating and alternating (see what I mean).
The writer without ink mutters under his breath, the one without strength molds it in their head, and the one without ideas writes with hidden and tenacious sycophancy, or perhaps pride. Big words and bigger sentences, to satisfy the reader or to crown the creator, when just a few words would carry the message.
I am thankful however that there lies two words to excuse us. Writers' Block, such a thankful affliction of the oh so wonderful minds. But maybe I'm truly thankful to you, faceless, voiceless hands helping, kind behemoths in my thoughtless dark.
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