Nothing to write. It simply doesn't pass. Like ice which won't melt because it is not cold enough. My ideas are frozen. Frozen in my mind like nonsense. They won't get together to bring any sense. They are letters. A mere twenty something and that's it. I need to transform them into something alive. I have to bring it to life, but I can't do much if the ice will not melt.
I can go on, writing and writing. It's the only way I know to make the ice melt. And if I stop, and go for a walk, when I'm back all the hard work is lost once more. All the liquid that protect the good ideas from bad writers has frozen again. I just have to keep writing. Anything, even nonsense, even irrational thoughts, even boring schedule planning or dull technical ideas. If I don't write some ten pages I won't reach the source of this well. If I do it every day I may have less to melt every day, since the ice doesn't return so fast. But if I spend three days or more everything is lost. Good writers write all the time. The well wont give its ideas away so easily. I have to write some ten pages now. If I stop for an hour, I'll have to write eleven. I'll have to write something like that tomorrow, and after tomorrow. After a week things will get easier and I can keep the ice down to a controllable level writing something like three pages a day.
I still have nothing to write but I must go on. I must continue. I feel like leaving this seat and going down to eat something. But if I do, I might lose a paragraph. If I stay down and watch a movie I will lose some two pages. If after the movie I feel sleepy and give up I will lose everything and will have to start again tomorrow. That's the way it is. There is no other way to melt the fucking ice. Reading helps. Reading improves the technique and may help with ideas, but nothing, nothing can replace writing itself. It's the only way. I am not good enough for this well of great ideas. I should try easier and less interesting ones.
But I insist. I want this one. Still no ideas, but I did get rid of a few centimeters. Oh, but it is still very cold out here. I want to stop. No! I have to continue. Hmmm... I will go down and eat something and lose a paragraph, but I will return. I will! I can't afford not to. I have to keep this going. I can't afford to melt all this and lose everything every day. I must reach the turning point. I must! It's the only way my goals will be reached. I will be back in a paragraph.
Well, I'm back. Shit! This is the lost paragraph. I don't know what to put in it. I can just keep writing. I should get at least some six lines. But I can't just write nonsense all the time. Imagine a book of nonsense! Every nonsense paragraph, in some sense, is a lost one. I write nonsense just to keep writing, but I have to remember it is lost. It's like rubbing the ice too softly, or like melting one side, forgetting it, and doing the other side, and then returning to find everything frozen again. This is a lost paragraph, but I should continue. Only by continuing to write will I get somewhere. I still don't know if I'll get there. What if I don't? Will I repeat myself forever? I'll probably lose my readers with so much repetition (if I haven't yet). But then I can erase the lost paragraphs and publish them somewhere. In my blog, maybe. This is the lost paragraph, and it closes this story of pure nonsense. It could have let the ideas free, and I could have started a nice story from here, but the fact is that the ice has unfortunately frozen again. No story will ever float to the surface of this well.