She couldn't stop her mind from racing. The bourbon didn't help. Neither did the walking, the pacing, the twitching of her foot when she sat still. It was hard to begin, to fill the blank page, to glue and paint and rub. It was easy to wish she had never started. Until...a bird appeared. She gave it eyes and wings. It gave her hope.
The year she stopped eating and working and talking, she devolved, draping cloth over mirrors, not brushing her teeth. She went from Emily Dickinson to Sylvia Plath to Anne Sexton, reading their work over and over, copying their words. A day came. She reached for a pencil... cracked egg, hot griddle. Her first poem filled two pages. She now eats oatmeal and wanton soup from the Chinese restaurant.