Wednesday, November 12, 2008


I sit, staring out the window, mind blank.

I should work. I need to work. There is so much that I have to get done, so many lists that await doing. Stories to write. Manuscripts to revise. Books to review. Magazines to read. Email to check. Blogs to compose. A desk to clean.

Behind me, a clock ticks off seconds.

Time slips through my fingers until I end each day with more undone than done. No one source is to blame. Distractions sidetrack me. Projects take longer to complete than expected. Revisions multiply because a stories is not as polished as I thought. Endless interruptions disrupt the flow.

Fresh snow dusts the ground.

Is there no end to the white? White pages of paper unmarked by a pen’s black ink. White computer documents begging to be filled with words. White text boxes empty of emails and blog posts. Only inside my head is there no white. There it is all black, formless, chaotic, waiting the Creator’s command.

A chill seeps through the walls.

Autumn has given way to winter. The light of inspiration has become weak and covered in clouds. The vibrant gold and red and green of descriptions have faded to brown and gray. The flow of ideas has frozen solid. I sit, staring out the window, mind blank.

Will spring ever come again?

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