She got herself a glass of orange juice with ice in it, to sip on while she worked. She thought that might make it easier.
She put on her Red Sox cap. She thought that might make it easier.
But it still wasn't easy at all. Sometimes the words she wrote down were the wrong words, and didn't say what she wanted them to say, didn't make the sounds that she wanted them to make. Soon her Snoopy wastebasket was filled with crumpled pages, crumpled beginnings of poems.
Her mother knocked on her bedroom door and called, "Anastasia? Are you all right?"
"Yes," she called back, taking her pencil eraser out of her mouth for a minute. "I'm writing a poem."
~ from Anastasia Krupnik,
written by Lois Lowry