Bleeding on the paper
Title:Bleeding on the Paper
Author: joudama
Fandom: Original fic
Rating: PG
Notes: One of my favorite quotes ever is "Writing is easy. All you do is sit there and bleed."
Bleeding on the paper
She sits in front of her computer, staring at the blinking curser. She knows she should be writing; feels the urge inside her, and yet the words won't come.
She knows what she wants to say, and yet, the words will not come. Her fingers rest on the keyboard, lightly touching nervously, waiting for that first sentence, first word, first letter. All she needs is that; once it comes she will have it, she will have made that first cut on the white space; black letters like scars.
But it will not come.
The words will not come. She looks at that blinking black curser, and then she looks at her pale hands and wrists, and she begins.
And when she has finished; when the words no longer come like a torrent, she stops, wrung out and exhausted.
With a quick motion--a key press with thumb and middle finger--it is done; saved. Another motion and the printer whirs into life, the pages she has just bled emerging as something more than dots of information and bits of code.
And then she stands. And she falls, the ground below her slick with blood; blood pooling in the keyboard, staining it as much as her words had stained the screen.
And she closes her eyes, knowing that just as the torrent of words in her had dried up, so will this soon.
Author: joudama
Fandom: Original fic
Rating: PG
Notes: One of my favorite quotes ever is "Writing is easy. All you do is sit there and bleed."
Bleeding on the paper
She sits in front of her computer, staring at the blinking curser. She knows she should be writing; feels the urge inside her, and yet the words won't come.
She knows what she wants to say, and yet, the words will not come. Her fingers rest on the keyboard, lightly touching nervously, waiting for that first sentence, first word, first letter. All she needs is that; once it comes she will have it, she will have made that first cut on the white space; black letters like scars.
But it will not come.
The words will not come. She looks at that blinking black curser, and then she looks at her pale hands and wrists, and she begins.
And when she has finished; when the words no longer come like a torrent, she stops, wrung out and exhausted.
With a quick motion--a key press with thumb and middle finger--it is done; saved. Another motion and the printer whirs into life, the pages she has just bled emerging as something more than dots of information and bits of code.
And then she stands. And she falls, the ground below her slick with blood; blood pooling in the keyboard, staining it as much as her words had stained the screen.
And she closes her eyes, knowing that just as the torrent of words in her had dried up, so will this soon.