“What’s wrong, darling?”
She stretches her arms out from behind over his chest.
“This isn’t going anywhere. I’ve been staring at this blanc piece of paper for hours now. What am I saying, for days.”
Once more, he sighs.
She squeezes him just a bit tighter.
“The only thing I seem to be good at is writing about how tough it is to write and to be a writer. The daily struggle with words and how to use them. Questioning myself if it’s all worth it.”
She loosens her grip.
“But at this, darling, you’re so very good.”