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The blank page stared relentlessly back at her.

“You can’t do it can you, you can’t fill me….” It sang in her head.

“Your mind is as blank as my page, you have no ideas, no musings, no desire to write anything. You feel dead, blank, empty…” She sighed. It continued.

“You are all washed up, a dried kernel of your previous creativeness.”

The taunting was merciless.

“You are not an author, you can not write. It’s not coming back, there is no more, you can’t write anymore, you can’t think past barely functioning. You can not write. Why try? It’s all rubbish anyway!”

She frowned, gritting her teeth, replied to it “Demon page. I will master you, I will fill you. So it might not be today, so what! I am tired and weary and the pull of my life is very intense this time of year. Everyone wants a piece of me and there is only so much of me to go around. My family are my priority and I am making magic for them, wonderment in their faces, memories for them to cherish, yes, I’m tired and weary and I can not focus; But hear this page, you are mine and I will have you. I will fill you and fulfill myself in the process. I may not be an author but I am a writer, I will write, perhaps badly but the best I can.”

She paused and closed her eyes, felt her chest rising with her breath, her body, tired as it was kept going, her mind felt calmer.

“I am a writer and I will write.”

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