My mind is obstructed from any kind of logical starting point. I have fragments of thoughts swirling around my head like gentle spring breezes that whisper past me and then are gone. I’m sitting here watching my curser blinking, blinking, blinking. The writing clich’ would be that my cursor is taunting me, waiting for direction while my soul is waiting for inspiration. I’m not so flowery in my writing and that just sounds silly. My fingers are fumbling on the keys and my thoughts drift to how much I disliked typing in high school even though typing really has nothing to do with this.
I’m waiting for that moment when I know what comes next. Last week I knew what was coming, or at least I thought I did. This week is something else entirely. My direction hasn’t changed and my goals haven’t changed, my focus is lost and the words are trapped somewhere deep inside of me. I can tell you what’s on my mind easily enough. I think about errands and cleaning and dinner and I even have a deep thought or two about life. I can write about what’s real and tell you what’s in front of me but I can’t find that spark that allows me to tell you a story that will pull you out of the present in such a way that you have to give yourself a minute to adjust back to reality when you stop reading.
A recent writing prompt of mine was ‘broken pieces were scattered’. That’s very fitting because that’s what it feels like; broken pieces of stories scattered all around and I don’t know where the pieces go in order to make them whole. I’ve tried a few writing prompts and it’s the same thing every time. I have a spectacular sentence or two, maybe even a paragraph but that’s where it stops and the story fades into something utterly worthless.
So here I sit, watching my curser blink and writing with the hope that my fingers know where to go next. I close my eyes so that I can walk through my writing and be a part of the story rather than its creator and there is just nothing but a big, black, impossible wall in my way. I can see that plainly enough, it reaches as far as my imagination can go. I can’t see what’s on the other side and I don’t see any ledges or footholds to even give me guidance. I can’t see the sky over the top, just black clouds to go along with my big, black, impossible wall. That’s where I feel taunted, not by my cursor but in my own mind. A joke I’m playing on myself that isn’t even a little bit funny, maybe ironic at best.
What do I do from here? I will continue writing about the here and now and hope that something creative comes from it. I’ll put my fragments together and attach them to the big, black wall in my imagination and see if I can make any sense from them. I’ll read more stories and listen to more suggestions. I’ll let my fingers type as I connect the scattered thoughts and search for the ideas that will set me free. I’ll look around for inspiration. I’ll let the breezes blow until one becomes a storm that can’t be ignored. I will continue to tell myself that I can and I will because I can and I will.
© Copyright 2014 P. F Morgan (UN: spaaj at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
P. F Morgan has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.