He sits at his
desk trying hard to be creative, but the only words in his head were those of a
time when all he had to do was look at a blank slate and begin. Those words
were used up, he thought to himself. Were there any new words, or combinations
of words he hadn't used before? Every day he came down the stairs anticipating
a day of writing, exploring new ideas and reaching deep inside of himself to
find that perfect story. A story that would make the daily paper that so many
depended on to start their day. His words are seeping into their heads as they
sipped the first cup of coffee. Some would circle his work, so they could
return to it when more awake. Every day for the last fifty some years he joined
thousands of people for breakfast, now he ate alone. He sat down at his desk
and sipped a cup of coffee waiting for the words that would once again join him
and so many others for breakfast. I suppose a writer is just like others in
most phases of life, but most people don’t realize without words, a writer is
speechless both in sound and thought.www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author
www.michaeloconnorwriter.com
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