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Coffee stains map the surface like old territories. Ink smudges bloom where my wrist drags across unfinished thoughts. Notebooks lie open, pages filled with fragments of something — dialogue without context, a line about hunger that may or may not belong in Famished, a sentence about a shotgun in winter light that may or may not survive Where the Blackbird Sings.

There’s artwork half completed, graphite fading where I lost interest or nerve. A face without eyes. A sky without depth. I move from page to page like I’m checking on patients I never fully treated.

And somewhere in this mess is my lead holder.

I had it this morning.

Now it’s gone.

That shouldn’t matter. It’s just a tool. But losing it feels like the desk pushing back. Like the clutter finally saying, You don’t get to move forward until you sort us out.

Every now and then, I get this feeling that I’m not quite good enough to finish what I start. That maybe I need to learn something new first — master another technique, refine another approach — before I’m allowed to complete the thing in front of me.

It sounds responsible. It sounds disciplined. It sounds like growth.

But there’s another voice in the room, quieter and far less dramatic.

It says: You’re good enough. Finish it.

Then I hear my editor’s voice in the distance: Where are my damn words?

I’ve been feeding the visual side hard this quarter. Building images. Refining style. Layering light and shadow until they hum. That work matters. It sharpens the eye. It strengthens the hand. Images speak in ways words never will.

But words do something images can’t.

They press. They interrogate. They refuse to let me hide behind composition.

Two different languages. Same hunger.

If I don’t clear this space — physically, mentally — the long work suffers. The slow-burn pieces require air. They require quiet. They require a desk that isn’t arguing with me.

Maybe the desk isn’t cluttered because I lack skill.

Maybe it’s cluttered because I hesitate at the moment something demands commitment. Because finishing means standing behind it. Because completion invites judgment in a way drafts never do.

So, this weekend, I’m not making a grand declaration. I’m not announcing a return. I’m just clearing surface space. Wiping the coffee rings. Closing the notebooks that aren’t ready.

Picking one piece and staying with it long enough to see it through.

And finding the damn lead holder.

Sometimes progress isn’t forward motion.

Sometimes it’s choosing to believe you’re already capable — and finishing what’s been waiting on your desk all along.

Now if I could just find the damn lead holder.

Guppy, did you take it?

Guppy yawns and walks away.

Of course she does.