Writer’s Block

Fog by VeroniqueThomas, deviantart.comIt fills my mind like a fog, a literary fog I can’t seem to shake. Forms appear through the mist, shadows of thought that slip sideways, dark one moment and gone the next. Curls of fog spin their way through my mind, hushing the inner voice and clouding that inner eye.

For a moment, my mind’s eye sees the craggy side of a mountain draped in the golden haze of summer. I see them holding each other, high above the canopy of forest beyond and oblivious to anything but each other. The tree cradles them in its massive arms, a copper head leaning against ebony, their perch overlooking the gilded splendor. I raise my pencil to draw and the image vanishes into the mists of consciousness. Nothing remains but the lingering light of afternoon, faintly golden in the fog.

I drift through my day. I work, I move, I function. Always, though, the thoughts drift through my mind. They hover just out of reach, shadows on the outskirts of vision. Wisps of plot brush my cheek, talntilizing pieces of personality and emotion and scenery.

The threads of fog part and I can feel the pull of her. I can feel the rich hues of that imagined mind: the deep blue of despair, the hot red of anger, the bruised purple of heart ache. It swirls around me, a rainbow of ideas begging to become reality. I pick up my pen to give her whispers body, and they disappear…

It’s a fog I cannot shake. Oh, how I long for the rising sun to burn the mist away. Just one moment – just one! – of peace is all I need. A moment free from the demands of life: the cries of children, the reminder of finances, the call of housework, the needs of family and life and duty. Oh… I wish I had just a moment of sunlight to free myself, but I am stuck in the fog of my mind.


About S. G. Ricketts

I am a dreamer. This page holds all of the dreams and desires and hopes and wishes of the first of my two dreams: to share my imagination with the world. For those of you who have read a book or written a book, these stories are not merely words on a page. They are living, breathing creatures, worlds so compellingly real that you can smell the sweat and feel the rain. This is what I want to share ...with all of you. Yes, becoming rich and famous would be fabulous. I won't deny that. However, it would be so much more satisfying to see my book in the hands of someone on the bus, hear my book talked about at a restaurant, see a cluster of fan-art. I want to inspire the mind to imagine different worlds and different situations. If I can achieve that, I will have achieved my dream.

Posted on September 14, 2012, in Musing, Word Vomit, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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