Thoughts tumbling, words heaping up in untidy piles,
Waiting for me to give them the signal, to get in their proper places.
But what places those may be—that’s for me to direct, them to obey.
And so it starts: move that line there, take ten words from the top
And begin to string them along the thought path
That leads to the first scene,
The first line of dialogue,
Now bring into the light the character flaw, the dark words hiding
From ultimate revelation. The expansion of story line, of suspense,
Those words rushing to establish their own identities to create the whole.
It’s only words, I say again to myself, playing with appearance, with sound;
The words themselves coming alive to breathe on their own
Their contribution to what we are creating.
If Inspiration lags, the words, the very thoughts heap up and create themselves
An unmovable pile; that “writer’s block” which cannot breathe and live.
I must then dive in, break up that untidy heap of thoughts and words,
Until the dam is breached. Although disorder reigns awhile,
Those flying, tumbling thoughts made up of words, wondrous, frolicking,
Are ready once again to be directed to their places
Along the story path that leads to
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