She hadn't written, that is, really written, in so long she had begun to think the words would never come.

She was living in a wordless world, filled with class and parties and socializing and gazing blankly into her computer screen for no reason at all but that it was the only other option than sleeping. She hadn't written about herself or her characters or felt the strong, reassuring pressure of a pen squeezed between her knuckles in so long she began to think it was a long-ago dream, that feeling. That feeling. Of losing herself completely in the page and the prose spilling out of the pen coming from who-knows-where-but-they-should-bottle-it-and-sell-it-on-ebay. Of forgetting wholly everything but the subject, the rise and fall of plot or self-discovery.

She was avoiding something, she could tell. But how does one go about asking oneself what's wrong?

ink :: graphite