Breathing in. The lungs expand, chest tight. The air catches in my throat. Breathing out. The air slithers out, my eyes going, facing the paper. It is blank, void of anything but a red line and blue lines. My mind is already at work. What is it going to be? Will a boy find his life on the rooftop of a dilapidated museum, or will you write about a girl who fights? There are many possibilities.
Uncapping the pen, it feels like magic. The ink whirls onto the page, a flurry of words coming out. The only sounds are breathing, a scratch of pen against paper, and floating music notes.
The hand is cramped, the music is down, and I look at the paper. The ink is whorled, words unintelligible, scratched-out words glaring at me. But, smiling is appropriate. This work is mine.