When I am away from my desk I cannot wait to return to it and handwrite something. But when I am at my desk with a blank sheet of paper before me I stare at her as at a naked girl, and my pen freezes, and I am afraid to touch her, for fear that I will despoil her.
A blank page is pure, immaculate, virgin. It promises literary greatness. On every blank page is hidden the best poetry or prose or love letter ever written. The pen is irresistibly attracted to her… He wants to stain her with his ink.
But after the first sentence is written the promise of greatness is replaced by the disappointment of reality.
What I put on paper is so far from what I think in my mind and feel in my heart, that after a few words I blush, and after a few lines I get rid of the written shame. I pretend it never happened.
“A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.”
The pen is wont to abandon a despoiled paper, to move on to the next virgin paper. It’s the way he is. Little does he care that the despoiled crumples from grief and ends up in the trash.
The paper is virgin, the pen is audacious; the result of their friction is a literary tragedy.
But sometimes one encounters a brave pen that stays with the paper whose virginity he has taken. He marries her. And then he makes love with her daily… he rewrites, he edits, he corrects, and by doing so, he uncovers the best in her.
A pen and a sheet of paper, just like a man and a woman, make love better if they know each other well.
Do you ever throw to the trash a sheet of paper with just a few words or sentences on it?