savistaretreat

The Day I Finally Heard My Own Story Again

The bad kind of noise, for a writer at least, isn’t the sound of traffic outside your window or the upstairs neighbor’s footsteps. It’s a roaring, oppressive silence of the blank page. That was the only thing I had to keep me company in six months of silence. I would sit at my desk, my fingers hovering over the keys, and nothing. The words had well and truly dried up, replaced by a din of deadlines and alerts - oh, and self doubt.