She pauses, pen poised above the page, hesitant, dreaming.
Words dance in a tumultuous fury in her mind; images flash like spark off a fire.
Suddenly, with no space for breath, no fully formed thought, the pen jumps forward in her hand.
Ink stains the pristine white page, artistic whorls and curves that combined tell a story. The story. Of the writer, of her mother, of all who touched her and shaped her, of the ones who came before, of the light illuminating these words on the page and the writer in her chair.
But no, there is no writer there. There is no subject, just verb. No doer, just action.
Zen in the art of writing.