The words just wouldn’t come.
As much as I stared at the flashing cursor on the empty screen, the words just wouldn’t come.
I tried all the usual remedies, of course. Good coffee, random pages from the dictionary, switching to pencil and paper, taking a short walk… but still the damned words wouldn’t come.
I sat there, staring at a screen that stayed as empty of words as my mind of ideas. No warrior princess and dragon lovers. No owls and foxes in a sacred forest. No fallen angels riding a Harley… they had all suddenly decided to take a break and leave my head.
Frustration gave way to anger, which eventually turned to simple numbness. “This…” I finally declared out loud, “…is the day my stories died.”
And then I saw it, casually sitting on my desk… the thin, long strip of graph paper carrying the testimony of my mother’s heartbeat.
With a sigh, I finally realized what happened to my stories. They were not dead. They were simply sitting quietly outside to give my heart some time to face the truth I had so masterfully managed to avoid so far.
Watching the peaks and valleys of the thin, black line I finally allowed myself to realize the words I had to write.
I miss my mother.
And it makes me sad.
There will be more more words to be woven into a myriad new stories… but not today.
Today I’ll put my pen down, and just allow myself to cry.