He sits.  The monitor is in front of him.  His hands are on the keyboard.  He looks at the wall, wondering if he should put decorations there.  The wall seems bare.  A Diet Coke is within reach, but it only has a puddle left.  He is unwilling to get up and get more.  He stares at the monitor.  The page is still blank.  On his desk are bills to pay, packages to send, pictures to download, games to play.  The page is still blank.

Beginning is the hardest part, they say.  Who are they?  They are they--that’s all I can say.  Ideas in his mind ricochet, dissolve and reform, build like DNA.  The page is blank.

A cat stares at him.  It wants food.  Or attention.  The cat is staring, and the blank page can be blamed on it.  His heart rate increases and he gently pushed the cat away with his foot.  The cat moves back, spins around once, and stares at him.  The page, that canvas, is blank.

Perhaps, he thinks, he can do this tomorrow.  Or the next day.  There are so many things to do, for this and that.  What is one blank page after one blank page.  One click on one button, and the page will be gone.  He will not see it, but he will still feel its blankness. 

What if, he thinks, I take these characters and ideas and send them dancing on the blank page, directing like an orchestra, setting them to play?  Will I then look at them and only see a child’s clumsy scissored figure?  The page is blank.