The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
You are just in the middle of a struggle with words which are really very stubborn things, with a blank page, with the damn thing that you use to write with, a pen or a typewriter, and you forget all about the reader when you are doing that.
One of the joys of a really good book is that you're so into the world of the book, you forget what you're looking at is words on a page.
Once the words of a book appear onscreen, they are no longer simply themselves; they have become a part of something else. They now occupy the same space, not only as every other digital text, but as every other medium, too.
The hardest thing about writing, for me, is facing the blank page.
Writings scatter to the winds blank checks in an insane charge. And were they not such flying leaves, there would be no purloined letters.
The writer presents himself to the blank page not with an open passport but an open heart.
We printed all the words out because otherwise nobody would be able to understand them.
Probably 95 percent of the things that are written never get on the screen.
Writing for the page is only one form of writing for the eye. Wherever solemn inscriptions are put up in public places, there is a sense that the site and the occasion demand a form of writing which goes beyond plain informative prose. Each word is so valued that the letters forming it are seen as objects of solemn beauty.
Once they're on paper, they're gone. I like to do as much with the words, as far as image goes.