The funny thing about being a writer is that even when you're empty, you still have words floating around telling you that you have no words. You ponder how empty you truly are and where the words all went.
You try to describe the place you are searching for that hoarded the words you want to work with but can't. You climb the mountain of regret and swim across the lake of shining waters (wait—that's from another story). Then you arrive but don't. You see just how empty the house is that you thought was a home. It has bare cupboards and certainly no fire by which to keep warm. Zero flame. And still—no words to be found.
You search the pages of other people's books to find some words for you to no avail. Nothing will bring your words back to you. Nothing is on the page but hurt. Unless you stop for a moment to see.
Imagination bends to creation, and all of a sudden you have told a story so full of emptiness that it is brimming with possibilities of a sequel and even the chance to be made into a movie. Maybe the screenplay could be written after the next heartbreak rips away the words like a magician and his tablecloth—leaving no words once again—but never truly empty.