I'm staring at the blank lines, hoping for words to fill them.
Outside, a car drives by. Then another and another. Their soft whooshing
sound is quickly replaced by silence.
I feel around under my pillows, finding a house phone, a cell phone, and
assortment of pens, and finally the remote to my stereo. I turn on quiet
music; something I hope will give me a subtle inspiration.
In my head, I review my day, trying to spark some sort of idea. I want the
words to come, I want the smooth flow of the words on the paper to gently
wash the anger, anxiety, and worry from my mind, just as they do every time
I write. I want to pour my heart and soul into each word that I write,
releasing myself into the story. But the words I have are not the right
ones; they don't capture my thoughts the way I want them to.
I'm close to tears. I stare at my lava lamp, but there are no words hidden
in the glowing red blobs. I nibble a cookie, but its creamy taste feeds my
hunger and not my fingers. With desperate eyes, I study the trees outside
my window, willing the leaves to form some shape that will strike fire in
The frustration is becoming to be too much. I write a sentence, then
scribble it out. I try another few words, then cross them out as well. I
shift my weight on the seat and look around.
A paper crinkles in my back pocket. I pull it out wearily, tired of this
word game. It is a note, neatly folded. I see only three words in a
familiar hand. I drop the note and quickly turn back to my page. The
words fly easily, and they are just the right words. Soon the page is full
and I begin on the next. I finish with a sense of pride, and a love for
the work, like a mother's gentle affection for her child. Finally.
And those wonderful three words lay on the floor, not quite forgotten in my
joy: "I love you".