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Ernest Hemingway said, “There’s nothing much to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
But I think my blood is white. Not because it’s pure or clean, but because it is stuffed and yet it is blank.
It’s not empty to be transparent, but it’s neither a pulsating red. It’s not even pale. It’s just white.
Does that make sense? I’m not sure. But I write. This is how I bleed, and I bleed a blank white.
Now, fill it up. Now, color it up.
Journals of a Quiet Fire 