A funny thing happened to me on the way to my word processor. My brain took a vacation, and it didn't invite me along. Some uninformed people call my experience writer's block, but I know the truth. Actually, little fairies live in all writers' homes. (Fairies are not to be confused with a Muse which is another story altogether.)
If you look around, l'll bet you can find your fairies. They hide in strange and sundry places. They can tuck their little wings under their arm pits so tightly that they can fit in amazingly small spaces. Like between the pages of a book, or under the tab key on the keyboard, or...well, you get the idea. Three of these little beauties live at my house.
Now, usually, these tiny creatures are very helpful. They flit around the room singing poetic ditties and whispering astounding bits of wisdom into my ear, and I, in turn, pass this wonderful prose and poetry on to my readers. Unfortunately, my small friends are also very spoiled. If I don't pay attention to them for a few days, they become somewhat churlish and refuse to offer me any assistance at all in my literary efforts.
That happened this week.
I sat before my blank, computer screen, fingers poised over the keys, ready to amaze my friends and family with my expertise and ... nothing happened, No thoughts flitted past my inner ear to fill the void. No brilliant idea with the intensity of a sun going nova suddenly brightened in my brain.
My palms became clammy, The sweat of my brow ran in rivulets down into my eyes. I began to search around the room nervously, looking in the corners, up at the ceiling, down at the floor, behind my desk where the dust balls live, everywhere in the tiny office that is my world.
"Little fairies, come out--come out--wherever you are," I pleaded.
No answer.
"I'm sorry I ignored you this week. but the grandchildren were here, and I had to work, and--and I was sick--and--"
I heard tinkling giggles- (They love it when I beg.)
"I'll give you cookies."
More giggles, but no sign of silver wings.
"Fine' Who needs you silly little nymphs anyway? Not me." I reached into the file named IDEAS. I created it one day when thoughts exploded like firecrackers in my brain, and I decided to let my computer remember them all for me. Thank goodness for electronic memory. The day was saved (along with my reputation),
"Who needs mythical figments of my imagination, anyway?" I asked myself. (Loud enough for the fairies to hear.) "I'll write about how I don't really need my fairies to write."
Of course, it worked. As soon as my impish little friends realized that I could do it without them, they began to flit around the room in frenzied flight. They buzzed in my ear and made general nuisances of themselves until I finally gave in and gave them each a cookie and a kiss. (I love it when they beg.)
But, it was too late for them to help me tonight. I had this article written. Of Course, I'm not a complete fool, I know a slice of buttered bread when I see one, so I let my little fairies stay up late and watch David Letterman so they would forgive my neglecting them.
No sense in taking chances. Right?
See ya between the pages.
JP