Earlier this March, I stubbed my toe on a huge writer’s block. I labored to find the glacial means that dropped this erratic boulder in my path, but to no avail. Nothing claimed responsibility for this behemoth. I begrudged my fellow authors their muse, called my own muse names like miscreant and heretic. I cried out hoping the wind would carry my despair, only to have it change direction and slam hard against my chest. Aching under the pressure that the lost syllables applied to my already bruised and tortured ego, I acquiesced to the silence.
Then I stumbled upon a writing event. Prompts and pictures posted for authors to grab in a free for all, to come away with a story that begged to be told. I began to read through the prompts, languish over the pictures; until one caught my eye, then my imagination. I felt the room begin to warm against the bitter chill in my writer’s mind. I checked my calendar…one day remained before I could claim my prompt/picture/prize. That mattered not, as I knew I would write this story. It was mine.
By the time the event kicked off with many an author claiming prompts for their stories, I had already gotten five thousand words for mine. It hummed in my head and danced to thrilling notes of exaltation. I worked the words into my laptop, crafting them, honing them, slashing them, rejoicing over them. The story is written; the location firmly rooted, and the characters satisfied and anxious to meet the readers.
The story will go now to the moderator of the event and wait it’s turn to be presented to the readers. My muse sits atop the dark cherrywood bookcase, panpipe in hand, and smiles. The little vacation away from her charge has refreshed her soul. Her melodious chants again fill my world and I am happy to report my stubbed toe is beginning to heal.