I’ve been trying all morning to write something. Anything. I have a deadline approaching and I can’t get anything down on paper that doesn’t sound like I’m writing a manifesto from my “End Of Times” bunker somewhere in the woods of Idaho. It’s all gibberish. My muse is apparently constipated.
There is nothing coming and I have tried all of my usual trick that often get my creative river flowing. Here are a few of those things that I’ve attempted to get things going this morning:
1) Spontaneous cursing.
2) Not-so-spontaneous sobbing.
3) Writing down all the words I can think of that describe how terrible of a writer I am.
4) Making a sock puppet that resemble my late mother who once warned me that “A career in writing is for people who won’t grow up and are averse to showering daily”.
5) Eating all the marshmallows in the house.
6) Going to the store and standing in the aisle while eating all the marshmallows there too.
7) Watching two rabbits have sex on my front lawn and spending an hour worrying if that makes me a sexual deviant.
8) Asking God for help in my writing.
9) Getting a “LOL” back from God.
11)Checking my old Powerball tickets to ensure that I actually wasn’t a billionaire.
12)Wondering how it is possible that I didn’t get one of the powerball numbers right despite the fact that I spent my entire January’s mortgage on tickets.
13)Eating worthless powerball tickets.
14)Checking WebMD for what happens when a human eats too many pieces of paper.
15) Become increasingly concerned that the real danger isn’t the actual paper I ate, but rather, the sketchy dude who sold me my tickets who I recall had a weird unclean yellow film all over his hands.
16) Assume that that lottery clerk was probably a writer as well.
Eventually, I went to my local cafe to drink 400 ounces of coffee in hopes that it would spurn some amazing writing. It didn’t do anything but cause my bladder to age 30 years.
Nothing was coming out of my brain and I was ready to just head home and sew myself into bed for the day. Then a small little child sat down at the table next to me. At first, I was wondering why she was glaring at me – but then I figured that the sight of a middle aged man shaking from caffeine and anxiety was probably a sight to be seen. I have no doubt that I looked like an escapee from Dr. Moreau Island.
The little girl waved at me. Ugh. Can’t she see I’m working here?! Where are her parents? I can’t be bothered to wave right now. Would a surgeon drop his clamps and scalpel mid-operation just to placate a sweet child? My hands were only going to be used for typing – not for waving. Sorry little girl. Back to staring at my screen. I smiled instead. That should do it.
She waved again. Damn. Fine. I waved back. It is so hard being nice to people.
“I have a cookie!”, she shouted and waved a pink frosted sugar cookie in front of me.
“You sure do.”, I said.
“Cookies are the best thing.”
I wanted to argue with her, but I couldn’t. Cookies are the best thing. They are simple and delicious. I have never actually made a cookie before, so I don’t exactly know what is in them. I’m pretty sure, however, that one of the main ingredients in a properly made cookie is heroin. Cookies are magic.
The little girl’s mother finally sat down next to her.
“Is she bothering you?”, her mother asked.
“Nope. Not at all.” I lied. “We were just talking about cookies.”
“Oh, she just loves her cookies.”
The little girl then proceeded to eat the cookie like it was the most important thing in the world to her. The brown hair girl took each bite as if it consuming it was her sole purpose on earth. She was the high priestess and I was witnessing a profoundly sacramental moment. There was nothing else in the universe aside from this cookie. Her mother disappeared. I, the gawking stranger, disappeared. It was just her and her pastel frosted cookie in a sugary limbo.
I was fascinated. I’m pretty sure that at some point this little girl’s mother became a little unnerved by how closely I watched her daughter devour her baked treat. I couldn’t help it. Eventually they left. I waved emphatically as they left. I’m probably on some sort of predator watch list now.
I want to write like that little girl ate that cookie. I want to write with that kind of purpose. I want to lose myself into the words. I want everything else around me to disappear and waltz to the sound of the clicking keyboard. I want to take one word at a time and fall in love with writing again.
Thank you, little girl. The words are coming to me now.