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Pencil in hand.
You peek at the white sheet of paper on your desk,
It is white and spotless like freshly fallen snow.
You write a few words,
The graphite scraping and scratching on the page.
You erase the letters and try again.
Now it looks boring
Like it’s been done before by a thousand other authors.
You keep going hoping it will turn out in the end.
But you take another glance.
That snowy sheet turned into a blizzard.
A chaos of cluttering confusion.
You make one of those bubble diagrams that
All of your teachers lectured about.
Thesis Statement. Supporting Details. Conclusion.
Rising Action. Climax. Falling Action.
All planned out, you start writing again.
Sentence, double space, sentence, double space.
Quotation marks here, new paragraph there.
But then you stop.
Do you care about what your pencil deposited on your paper?
Is this really what you have passion for?
Suddenly a sprout emerges in your mind.
You take your pencil and let the flower bloom into beautiful words.
Then the grass, the trees, sprinkled with sunshine.
Suddenly the wintry page morphs into a spring setting.
It’s wonderful, free, passionate.
You toss the pencil away.
This can be written in ink.