I pick up the pencil,
but I ask myself, "Why?"
I have no story to tell, no pain, no reason to write.
Staring at the blank page,
a thought (snaps her fingers) wanders before me.
I see a spark.
Reaching out to grab it, my hands stretched out as far as I can, and -
- nothing!
It's all lost: all thought, all purpose.
So I stare at the paper again - for hours it seems!
As I look up at the clock shining 1 p.m.,
I was ready to take a break.
Standing up, fist clenched, shoulders broadened -
until I had realized I'd started at 12:59.
And that hunched me back over while releasing a sigh.
So I continue to stare,
waiting for that booklet of notebook paper to work its magic,
to stare back at me, and blink.
That is what fuels me:
a sense of accomplishment that I couldn't receive from the clock.
As the time slips away, I realize I'm not alone,
lost and abandoned in this blank page.
So when you find yourself, and you're reaching for that sparkle,
ready to grab it, but pull back;
when you have emotion [that] builds up inside,
but [you] can't seem to find the words to release it,
and to release you,
I am trapped, my feet glued to the floor,
a cluttered closet of insignificant thoughts,
searching for the one to set me free,
to fill up the emptiness of that blank page.
But this time, this time,
when I look back at that page,
I see words.
So when you battle with that first blank page,
those words you can't seem to find,
just pick up that pencil,
as I did mine.
(Applause)