I write several sentences and stop with a period. Something is wrong. Or maybe the sentences are better than I allow myself to imagine, which frightens me. I’m trying to create a scene in a psychotherapist’s office, or is it in a writer’s office? My narrator is the client, or perhaps an anxious writer, who enters the room and fears that something bad might happen before he leaves. My narrator originates in me. Perhaps something is awry in my mind. I might be afraid of what I imagine could happen in my mind. It is time to pause and reread the previous sentence. As a writer, being afraid of my imagination is a death sentence. I imagine both work spaces: a psychotherapist’s consulting room and a writer’s writing room. In either space, I seem to struggle with what I experience inside myself. Or maybe this is how I experience my mind today. An idea comes to me: why not make all of this uncertainty part of the narrative? Before I can spend time with this question, my mind becomes a calmer space. Perhaps these sentences have absorbed the uncertainty that threatened to prevent me from imagining what might happen on this page. My narrator, or me, or both of us, are in two places at once. I pause again, imagine the client entering his therapist’s office and the writer writing on his laptop, and the struggle to experience my mind becomes mine. Calmness returns, for a moment.