I open the notebook
and the first blank page
out at me, issuing a dare. Rationally, I know that
in time this book will be full of my scribbling
crossings. But right now I have a superstitious
fear about writing anything in it. The first sentence
will set the tone, decide whether this is to be
a good or a bad book.
The notebook is all potential. I might
make some character sketches for my novel, perhaps prove the
conjecture that's been eating at me these last few years.
Everything is possible, at least until that defining
instant when I set pen
A decision will only speed me
to the book's final closing.
So for the moment I sit and think,
imagining what might be written,
not daring to write.