All of my research was done: the weeks upon weeks of reading, the staggered interviews. I’d finished my procrastinating, too, and the crazy carb loading that I’ve come to recognize as part of my windup process. The deadline had crept close enough to be un-ignorable. I tapped away at my keyboard, trying to tell the story. And failing.
CLUNK, went the sentences, horribly. Clunk, clunk, clunk.
I wrote some more.
Clunk.
Distantly, in a small and insistent part of my brain that I was determined to disregard, I understood the trouble with the piece, a profile of an artist ascendant. The story I’d found in talking with her could not have been clearer or more apt, and she’d been brilliant in conversation. But she’d been anxious, too, or so I…