Sometimes, sitting down to write, a writer can’t find any words.
Which isn’t to say that there aren’t thousands of frustrating, funny, and thoughtful moments upon which a writer may reflect during the course of a single day. Rather, each moment is its own novel, its own poem, its own treatise, its own painting, its own history, its own ode, its own testament: the omnipresent sound of a thundering rain; a dog’s irrepressible joy at his master’s return; the dumbfounded wonder of hearing your child’s heartbeat within your loving wife’s belly; the growing despair of another task put off to the thousandth tomorrow; the nervous thrill at the prospect of life changing forever; the strange realization that you share more in common with your parents than you wanted or suspected. Each moment is a work of art, and a writer can only hope to hint at the totality of each experience within the mind and breast. No, there are more moments to grasp than a writer could ever hope for in their strangest and most triumphant dreams.
But, even with all of this, and perhaps because of all of this this, sometimes, sitting down to write, a writer can’t find any words.