Writers Block

writers block



I can hear the keyboard shaking under my finger-tips.  My soul is talking.  It fills the room with moments.  The air moves with experiences that drum a click tapping on black plastic that is made for stating miracles.  I need to stretch but don’t want to miss the music.  This blank page has never held so many stories.  The veins in my hand tell them.  I listen.  A sweat bead falls and it is cold when it hits my side.

Is this what it feels to write?  Before the words are seen.  Before I get in the way.  The great silent screaming of a smile, a goodbye, a mistake.  His face before his heart stopped.  Her lips when she whispered.  Crying in the dark.  When the air moved in front of him so as to stop regret.

A hundred half clicks underneath my fingers while I bleed sweat for the moments before they become words.

I wonder how to write.


Recently I was picked up by a publisher, under contract for two books I’ve written and a third that should be on its way.  It’s not.  My musings on writers block.  Anyone else?



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