Sometimes there is nothing to say. Sometimes the words are not there. Sometimes the voice is silent. Sometimes she has gone to those places she goes to when the world is not right for her.
There is a place, high up on the cliff she sits to watch the horizon where the sea meets the sky. Up there, she does not need words. There is only herself and she does not need to justify herself to herself.
She has learnt how to live with herself. It is the rest of the world that is the problem. Most of the time it leaves her alone and she has learnt to live without it.
She never got on with the world, even as a child. She was always the awkward one at school. She was the one the other girls turned away from and she was the one no boy could ever understand.
Back then, she was full of words. Her words filled her diary and spilled over into page after page of exercise books. There were so many words and so many ways of putting them together, one after another. There was so much she needed to say, but no-one who she wanted to say it to.
So she said all she needed to say to those pages.
Words were the only friends she ever needed.
Now, though, all these years have gone by. She spent so long with the words and wrote so much. Inventing lives and worlds and carving them out of language. She built a universe of her own around herself brick-by-brick, word by word.
Now, sitting here up on her cliff she remembers how she built this place out of words. She spent pages just describing this cliff above the small coastal village and the smell and the sound of the sea below. She spent pages on the sky with all her dark clouds passing over each paragraph.
She stands and walks to the edge of this cliff she made. Here, right on the edge of it all, there are no words.
Below her is a sea full of words, wave upon wave of them. All going as deep into the word sea as any of the books she has made.
Now she is ready to go back to the words.
She takes a deep breath and dives straight in.