Thinking

I've been busy. Thinking. I decided awhile ago to write a novel, a novella, better yet short stories. It would be a modest collection, Twain-ian in ambition, Keilloresque in its lyricism. In the distant shadows of Mitch Albom it would be the topic of morning TV news shows, and graduate seminars. Women's' book clubs would speak in hushed, reverent tones of my prolific writing style. No doubt, there would be occasional magazine interviews. My name would be mentioned amongst discussions of Chekhov and Vonnegut.

In order to nurture the creative state of mind, I would need to read more: Hemingway, Faulkner and Grizzard. Late evening reflections would try to convince me that I was procrastinating.

My computer is turned on, a blank windows doc is open. The cursor blinks. I look out the window, gaze at the ocean, notice the plummaria trees, walk to the fridge, What's that? Just toss it out. I return to the computer, and the cursor still blinks. This may or may not be writer's block.

Gabriel Garcia Marques took months to come up with his first sentence after which came the sweet pouring forth of a writer's vision. Would an outline be helpful? Maybe, if one is creatively impaired: Ginsberg and Kerouac probably never used outlines. Writing can be an edgy lifestyle.

I went back to the blinking cursor, and the hours pass before my first sentence. Hours, days and weeks go on, and I read and rewrote the sentence, altered it again. I erased it.

The cursor blinks