pen_grunt | Beginnings

Every single time I stare down this barrel of a blank page and I think: Not this time. This time nothing will come. How do I possibly make a script out of what I have? How can I possibly have original ideas left? (This time, the seventh year of a show...)

Through some miraculous conjuring of mindset and momentum it all comes together. There is always some tap in my mind that once turned flows freely. And yet it always starts out this way. The trick is in the turning.

I don't think of myself as having a particularly artistic temperament. At least not in the traditional sense. In the constant need to create, maybe, for I'm always doodling or scribbling or piecing something together and without that I feel lost and stagnant.

But in this sense--in that major crisis of confidence that doesn't trust a wealth of past experience--it seems very mercurial.
It will flow. It always does. It will be beautiful and funny and men will sing my praises from the rooftops (well, um. not that, maybe). But it's always so damned hard to start.