And I mean that litterally... this is a passage from the novel I am writing. It slightly describes how I started writing.
When I got home that night I was in a writing mood. I didn't even bother eating, I just went straight into my room and turned on my radio as loud as it would go, then I grabbed my notebook and a pen. I had to write.
I sat down on my bed and stared at the blank page infront of me. My brain was racing, my thoughts bounced from Sandra, to Charlie, back to Sandra, to the potential strain this would put on the friendship of Charlie and I, and back to Sandra. I couldn't get her out of my head, everytime I tried, something pulled her back in.
I kept thinking about the way she made me feel, it felt like I couldn't breathe, but in a good way. I got butterflies in my stomach, and my head started spinning. It felt as though she had knocked me flat on my ass and I couldn't get up. The weirdest thing was, no matter how scary that felt, I couldn't get enough.
It seemed as if I had just blinked and when I opened my eyes and looked down, the page was full of words. I read through what I had subconsiously written and it was one of the best poems that I had written in a while. But even with how proud I should have been of that poem, all I could think of is how Sandra would react if I showed her. I knew she loved poetry. I wanted to show her that poem, tell her that it was written for her. But deep down I knew that I would only do the first half of that.
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