The ritual of writing presses down upon her. She cannot resist it; it pulls like a blackhole. Everyday she tries to ignore it, to study or talk, or read other people's stories. Everyday the urge gets stronger; the story, her story, is always there.
Her computer sits in the corner of the room. It's screen is open and bright, hopeful. It could be understanding, the words could come easily. But she know's that's only a hope; the dream of a non-writer who has no urge, no need. it will be so hard, the screen will burn into her eyes as she strives, and her fingers will ache in the cold. And when she is done, what will she have? Nothing but words, her words, useless. They will go no where, they will sit at home, accusing and hurtful. No one will read them.
.