The sound of pen on paper

I see the cursor blinking. Waiting. It’s like that impatient foot tapping when you’re staring up at the menu and can’t decide what to order. The tapping only makes you nervous. I’ve never liked the blinking cursor.

What you need to know about me before anything is that first and foremost I am a writer.

I write. Notes. Ideas. Poems. Stories.

It has taken me most of my life to be able to admit this. I’m not saying that I’m necessarily a good writer, only that I am one.

There is a story kicking around in my head. A story whose characters have been with me for as long as I can remember. I hope that sometime during the summer, maybe while sitting beneath the trees in New Hampshire, I can finally finish their story. I got really close last summer. I felt the thrill of creativity. I felt them coming to life.

The last time I edited my story, manuscript, what have you, was last August. That both breaks my heart and pisses me off. Writers are eternally angry at themselves.

Here’s to hoping that I hear lots more clicking of the keys than the slow and steady tapping of an impatient cursor.

~

It’s the anxiety of influence.

“Am I on the right path?

Is this how they did it?”

Who’s to know?

All I know is that my pulse quickens

at the sound of pen on paper.

The music of my life.

How do I measure against such greatness?

Only fools bring out the rulers and step on the scales.

You cannot measure your weight in words.

Only when strung together do they

come to mean more than a neat group of letters.

Only then do they have the power

to change the world.

~

Love, love, love, e