He gazed intensely at a sheet of paper, breath suspended, a word on the quivering point of his pen poised and waiting to fall. […] He forced the pen in his tight grip a hairsbreadth closer to the paper so that the word stubbornly clinging to it might yield finally, flow onto the vast emptiness. Point and paper met. Kissed. Froze.
He sat back, breath spilling abruptly out of him […] How, he wondered incredulously, did all those books and papers come into existence? In what faceted jewel of amber secreted in what invisible compartment of what hidden casket did others find that one word to begin the sentence that layered itself into a paragraph, that built itself into a page, that went on to the next page, and on, and on?
Patricia A. McKillip, The Bards of Bone Plain
(Source: okamimars)
-
alteri reblogged this from okamimars
-
writingbeginswiththebreath reblogged this from okamimars
-
robynbright liked this
-
whispering-literature liked this
-
okamimars posted this
