It was like writing. On occasion her thoughts would flow naturally, easily, effortlessly, steadily - each word was intentional and every syllable enough. And in times like those her essence, her being, the very best of her would be replicated on paper and immortalized for all time.
But mostly it wasn’t like that; in fact - quite the opposite actually. She was not writing in solitude on a page clean and crisp but rather on a shared page with several others at the same time. She's fighting for space and in the commotion her garbled thoughts are imprinted as crooked text and messy blobs on soiled paper. Her best work was pathetic, and now she's all flustered and flushed because the collective result ain't inspiring shit - and that's what bothered her - how that sheet of paper, once nice and new wasn’t the canvas for a work of art, but rather a scratchpad for the incoherent thoughts of anyone with a pen.
But she eventually figured it out. She took a step back to take it all in. She stared in despair at the negative words and doodles, reflected on broken lines of poetry, and cried at stories so sad. She drew inspiration from the intricate artwork and bold statements of creativity. And she found solace in sentences of hope. She paused for a bit, to tie it all together: the good, the bad, the sensible and senseless. And she collected herself - her passion, grit, and her renewed sense of purpose. And she started to write again.