Writer's block

Red rimmed eyes look up from the desk begging for a little more time. It has been only a short time, and the paper is still blank, but the clock's minute hand has moved belying the hour. My mind has wondered, and though the day may be done, I am still stalled on the opening line.

The day started well with hope and an idea. There would be action and adventure, there would be love and delightful play, and there would be smiles and infectious laughter. Somewhere along the way, there would be a loss so terrible that fear would grip the soul and keep our attention until the bitter end. The trap would be laid and a rescue with a daring getaway. There would be a hero and a maiden, there would be a villain who redeems himself before the end, and the true bad guy would be revealed in the very end. Somewhere along the way, I was stalled.

Preparations were made, and the paper was cleanly laid. The pens, both black and red, were set to the side of my desk. The coffee and my muse were both in attendance. The opening line "For all the tea in China, I had not hoped that life could change with such sudden and complete abandon that I would regret only the loss of my greatest friend" written clearly on the top of the page.

The hour's tick by and the story's plot still gloriously fills me with excitement. My mind filled with dreams that my work will be recognized with the rewards only a few great authors have ever known and those mostly recognized well after their time. It will be different because my story is the one that has never been told. The hours drop away, and the sun moves to its zenith.

Hunger fills me, and I am convinced that the reason my sheets are still white lies with my appetite. Once I have quenched the physical desire, I will be great again, and words will flow from my pen like water. After I lift my face to the muse and ask again for the inspiration to describe my greatest story, I am answered with a tapping, an annoying sound so steady that it must be found.  After an hour of searching high and low, I discover a sink with a leak. Knowing that I cannot hear my muse's instruction with such a loud rhythmic sound echoing through my head, I work for hours on its handles until the sound is gone. Then back to the alabaster sheets waiting for me on my desk.

More time slips by as I converse with my characters. I imagine them sitting with me and telling me their stories. Hearing their voices, I am touched by their histories. Some so sad that my heart aches, and knowing their futures, I am filled with anxiety to know their endings. Some bring me closer to understanding their needs and give me pause with the knowledge of what I must put them through before they can achieve their goals. And yet, no more ink hits the paper.

The shadows grow long and the sunset's hue filter through my room reminding me that the day is nearly over and with red-rimmed eyes look up from the desk begging for a little more time. It has been a day, and the paper is still blank.  The clock's hands are never pausing, move forward.  My mind has wondered throughout the day, and I am still stalled on the opening line.