I'm staring at the blank lines, hoping for words to fill them.

Nothing.

Outside, a car drives by. Then another and another. Their soft whooshing sound is quickly replaced by silence.

Nothing.

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.

Nothing.

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.

Nothing.

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 my head.

Nothing.

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.

Nothing.

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.

Something.

And those wonderful three words lay on the floor, not quite forgotten in my joy: "I love you".