She’s writing. She writing. She’s writing a novel. She’s writing, she’s weaving, conceiving a plot. It quickens, it thickens. You can’t put it down now. It takes you; it shakes you. It makes you lose your thought. But you’re caught in your own glory. You are believing your own stories; writing your own headlines, ignoring your own deadlines. But now you’ve gotta write them all again. You think she’s an open book, but you don’t know which page to turn to, do you?
Cake, “Open Book”