Tonight when I came home I sat in the driveway in my van and stared at the lights on the dashboard. The gas tank was almost full, but the speedometer was at zero.
Full of gas, but going nowhere.
Full of ideas, but not writing.
Feeling like the car sitting in the driveway. The speedometer on zero.
There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.
― Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
A writer who is not writing.
A writer who is collecting books on writing, thinking about writing, avoiding writing, talking about writing, singing about writing, dreaming about writing, and writing about writing.
But not writing.
Is there anyone else who has a gas tank full of gas but they are not moving?
Is there anyone else who wants to stop collecting books on writing and write?
Is there anyone else?
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