Author Mike OConnor: Un-noticed

Author Mike OConnor: Un-noticed: A writer's world is as big as his thoughts. Every sentence is squeezed out and put on paper sometimes so swiftly that they run into eac...

Un-noticed

A writer's world is as big as his thoughts. Every sentence is squeezed out and put on paper sometimes so swiftly that they run into each other and must be disciplined by the writer himself. Rejection is common for all who write, and it's as common as an ink cartridge running out halfway through the final chapter.

A writer's life is lonely even though he has dozens of friends that he usually created by remembering someone he once knew but like those he remembered his characters often fade into nothing during the editing phase.

Writers have moments like most non-writers when words stay hidden, and offering conversation is rejected. The saving grace is writers will return with paragraph after paragraph while the non-writer will forget it and move on.

Writing isn’t a game or a hobby. It’s a way of life that, if not used, will cause an abundance of stories to overflow in your head and the chance of an embolism grows more with each un-written word.

The absolute worst thing any writer faces is knowing he has written some amazing things that went unnoticed. It's like driving down the coast and being the only one in the car that saw a school of white whales.

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Author Mike OConnor: Your story

Author Mike OConnor: Your story: THE STORY OF YOU ALL OF MY PREVIOUS ENTRIES ON THIS BLOG HAVE BEEN IN THE FORM OF A STORY. THIS ONE IS DIFFERENT IN THAT I WANT TO WR...

Your story

THE STORY OF YOU

ALL OF MY PREVIOUS ENTRIES ON THIS BLOG HAVE BEEN IN THE FORM OF A STORY.
THIS ONE IS DIFFERENT IN THAT I WANT TO WRITE ABOUT YOU.EVERYONE HAS A STORY TO TELL BUT FEW ARE THOSE WHO HAVE ATTEMPTED TO WRITE IT.
THAT’S UNDERSTANDABLE. NOT EVERYONE IS A WRITER.
WHAT IF I OFFERED YOU MY WRITING EXPERIENCE TO COMPILE THE STORY OF YOU?
ITS CALLED “GHOSTWRITING”It's AN EASY PROCESS IF YOUR WILLING TO ANSWER SOME QUESTIONS AND HAVE A PHONE OR EMAIL CHAT WITH ME.
SOME SERVICES LIKE THIS ARE SHOWING UP ON THE WEB WITH PRICES RANGING FROM $1500-$7000 FOR GHOSTWRITING SERVICES. WHY SO MUCH?
THESE COMPANIES DO MORE THAN WRITE YOUR STORY. THEY ALSO BIND THE STORY IN EITHER PAPERBACK OR HARDCOVER  AND OFFER AN E-BOOK VERSION. THAT’S ALL WELL AND GOOD BUT, HOW DO THEY JUSTIFY THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS?
ILL TELL YOU. YOU GET TO CHOOSE A PACKAGE THAT INCLUDES EITHER A “DECENT” WRITER, A “GOOD” WRITER OR A” VERY GOOD” WRITER AND THE COST RISES WITH EACH WRITER TYPE. I'M THINKING THE $7000 WRITER MUST BE A REINCARNATION OF HEMINGWAY.
NOW LET ME EXPLAIN WHAT I CAN OFFER YOU TO WRITE THE STORY OF YOU, AND let's KEEP IT SIMPLE.
FIRST STEP---YOU COMPLETE A QUESTIONNAIRE AND EMAIL IT BACK TO ME---NO CHARGESECOND STEP---WE HAVE A CHAT VIA PHONE OR EMAIL---NO CHARGETHIRD STEP---I WRITE YOUR STORY AND YOU APPROVE IT---PAY MESEE HOW EASY THAT WAS?
YOU WILL RECEIVE A COMPLETED MANUSCRIPT TO DO WITH WHAT YOU PLEASE. IF YOU WANT TO HAVE, IT PUT INTO A PAPERBACK OR HARDCOVER BOOK MANY SUCH PLACES CAN DO THAT FOR A REASONABLE COST. IF YOU WANT IT IN E-BOOK FORMAT THERE ARE PLACES FOR THAT TOO, SOME AS LOW AS $27.00
YOU SEE YOU DON’T HAVE TO SPEND THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS TO CAPTURE YOUR STORY IN PRINT  BECAUSE I WILL OFFER MY SERVICE TO YOU FOR A CRAZY LOW PRICE OF JUST $450.00 AND, I GUARANTEE COMPLETE SATISFACTION OR I WILL NOT CHARGE YOU ANYTHING AT ALL.
PEOPLE WHO WANT TO INCLUDE SOME PHOTOS IN THEIR STORY WILL BE ASKED TO DOWNLOAD THEM TO ME AND I WILL PLACE THEM IN THE APPROPRIATE SECTIONS OF THE MANUSCRIPT…NO CHARGE
ISN'T IT TIME YOU SHARED THE REAL YOU WITH FAMILY AND CLOSE FRIENDS? TOGETHER WE CAN DO JUST THAT. MESSAGE ME OR SHOOT AN EMAIL  HELPAVET4500@GMAIL.COM  TO RECEIVE A QUESTIONNAIRE. THAT’S THE FIRST STEP.

P.S.
NO UPFRONT MONEY IS REQUIRED. THE FULL AMOUNT OF $450.00 IS DUE UPON YOUR RECEIPT AND APPROVAL OF THE MANUSCRIPT. ALL PAYMENTS WILL GO THROUGH PAYPAL OR VENMO
I'M LOOKING FORWARD TO WORKING WITH MANY OF YOU IN THE COMING WEEKS AND MONTHS. KEEP IN MIND EACH LIFE STORY WILL TAKE APPROXIMATELY 7-10 DAYS FOR ME TO COMPLETE AND ARE DONE IN THE ORDER I RECEIVE THEM. I WILL GIVE YOU A COMPLETION DATE AS SOON AS YOU SIGN UP.
MIKE
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Author Mike OConnor: Love has no end

Author Mike OConnor: Love has no end: I close my eyes and see her in all the wonder she was to me. A starlet of time past caught in a world that couldn’t see her for who she was...

Love has no end

I close my eyes and see her in all the wonder she was to me. A starlet of time past caught in a world that couldn’t see her for who she was. So beautiful so graceful so full of life in countless ways.

She loved teasing me with her pouty little mouth and flawless body that took my very breath away every time we touched. The world wasn’t ready for her with the clothes she wore and the way she did her hair. Some talked about her and her ways but she laughed it off and went on living the life she had dreamed about as a girl.

The small-town girl that made it big in a city that beckoned to her like the brightest star in the sky. She stood out there as well but this time as a woman who belonged in all the glitz and glamour, that was her dream come true. We lost each other to time and circumstance but I think of her every time I hear a particular song or see a movie we once watched so many years ago.

I will forever hear her voice and taste her lips as her memories shoot an arrow through my old and fading heart. There she is gliding across an empty ballroom laughing and singing reaching for me to join her and of course I do. The music will end soon but we will dance on to our music that knows no end.

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Author Mike OConnor: Hearts that dream

Author Mike OConnor: Hearts that dream: There are times when I create a perfect life for myself or at least how I see it. .It's like the ingredients for a cake with a pinch of...

Hearts that dream

There are times when I create a perfect life for myself or at least how I see it. .It's like the ingredients for a cake with a pinch of this and a dash of that all mixed together to create an end result. Im living in a forest with a woman who is as free as the nature that surrounds us. I go back to the days of Woodstock, where I saw her knowing we were meant to be together. We built our house with lots of rooms and a huge fireplace made of fieldstone.

Outside we had gardens, many of them that we would tend and harvest. There was a basement of mud under our house and its there we stored the fruits and vegetables to feed us in the cold months of winter. A massive pile of firewood stood alongside a small barn that sheltered our chickens and a goat she had to have. We had a horse at one time but age took her away from us and the stall has never been used since.

We raised two kids there teaching them the needs of the land and the importance of giving back what you take. They grew to be fine adults living their dreams but coming back home during the times that were always important to us as a family. Now it's just us two who live what was our dream come true. She still puts flowers in her hair as we walk hand in hand across meadows of glowing fireflies, each of us aware that our journey was a journey of the mind and a heart that dreamed.

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Author Mike OConnor: Yellow paper

Author Mike OConnor: Yellow paper: As a young boy, I liked to be alone with a pad of paper and a pencil. It wasn’t for homework or drawing but a place to express what was g...

Yellow paper

As a young boy, I liked to be alone with a pad of paper and a pencil. It wasn’t for homework or drawing but a place to express what was going on in my mind. My parents didn’t think too much about it but my grandmother thought differently. She encouraged me to write whatever came into my mind, be it a memory of something or someone, maybe a place I had gone or a friend I just met. She told me never to stop writing because one-day, people would pay to read my words.

I lost count of the pieces of paper that I had given to her that She read several times before locking them away in a small trunk she kept in her bedroom. When she passed, I was given those pieces of paper, which were a considerable amount. They went back over forty years each one a bit of myself growing up writing what my heart told me to write.

I read every word on every piece of yellowed paper, re-living my life through my own eyes, it was to say the least a mirror into my soul. When I was selecting pieces of my writing to be included in a now published book titled “Raw Emotions,” I picked several that were tucked away for so long in grandmas trunk. A lot of parents and grandparents save pictures showing their young one's growth and life stories but how many save the feelings of a young boy growing up who just wanted to write words?

I was close to my grandmother and think of her often especially when I pull out a yellowed piece of paper she saved so someday people would read my words

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Author Mike OConnor: Boat builders

Author Mike OConnor: Boat builders: He was a tall man of great strength, he was my dad and I loved him more than I ever let him know. He worked with his hands to make a livi...

Boat builders

He was a tall man of great strength, he was my dad and I loved him more than I ever let him know. He worked with his hands to make a living building wooden boats that were the most beautiful things I had ever seen. It took him, on average one year to complete a boat. He worked very long hours and if I ever wanted to see him, I went out to his shop and watched as he cut and formed the wood that would be the decks. He became a part of the boat watching it grow like a child.

Unlike most dads, when it came time for me to learn from him, he gave me real tools not kids tools you'd find at a store. These were his tools and in a small metal box, he put a rubber mallet, a plane and some sandpaper. He said that’s all I needed right now. I was six years old when he bestowed these tools on me and I had my first feeling of being proud of something.

He gave me a small plank of wood and told me to place it on a sawhorse where he wanted me to sand with the grain until it was as smooth as my mothers' skin. Back and forth, I sanded that plank thinking I was done several times but he didn’t agree and told me to keep sanding. Like most six-year-olds, I grew bored and asked if I could be finished? He said if I quit now, it would take twice as long to complete what I had started which meant I couldn’t move on to using the mallet or the wood plane. But I was six and went back into the house and my toys.

I overheard my mom and dad talking that night. She asked him how I had done and he laughed a bit telling her how I grew bored after an hour of sanding. He also told her he saw it in my eyes that I wanted to learn and he was going to do his best to teach me the craft both he and his dad had been doing for so many years. I continued to visit dad in his shop, and eventually, I learned the many aspects of boat building and the love that went into each one we built.

On my seventeenth birthday, dad told me there was a gift for me in the shop. We walked out and as I opened the door, I knew right away what the pile of wood still in shrinkwrap had to be. He told me that was my future boat, one that I would build by myself with guidance if needed. He told me his tools were now my tools, that I had earned the right to use a masters tools.

The next eight months I spent every hour I could on my boat. Yes, I had questions and sometimes I got frustrated but it wasn’t in my blood to give up and I didn’t.On a beautiful spring day, I moved the boat I had built out of the shop and down to the dock. It wasn’t a big boat but big enough so the three of us could take her on the maiden voyage around the point. We waved at neighbors who gave thumbs up as we passed by fellow boat builders asking if she held water? Dad assured them it did not, that his son had built it by himself and wasn’t she a beauty?

Life went on and that first boat I built became one of many. Dad retired and could often be found in the shop smoking his pipe and watching me as I filled another order for a boat. It is a good life, one I grew to love. I still asked him for advice which he was happy to give. But I think the thing that brings him the most happiness is his grandson sitting on his lap knowing he will carry on the family business for years and generations to come.

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Author Mike OConnor: Silent Hunter

Author Mike OConnor: Silent Hunter: Silence surrounds me as my journey through the forest begins. My grandfather told me the quiet in the woods is an alarm of sorts. When noth...

Silent Hunter

Silence surrounds me as my journey through the forest begins. My grandfather told me the quiet in the woods is an alarm of sorts. When nothing is heard not even the voices of the smallest creatures, there is fear among them and staying silent is their protection until the threat leaves.

There is no need for conversation between people in the forest; it can wait until you leave the trees behind you. Listening to the creatures big and small teaches you their language . The smallest hum of a bee or the low growl of a wolf letting others know they are not alone, that possible danger lurks around the path made of dirt.

There is an army in every forest. A soldier and a scout sent to the front lines to observe and report back to a specific location where chatter rings through the trees warning of coming danger.As we approach the critter command post branches become bridges for smaller critters like rabbits and squirrels who scurry off deep into the woods and away from potential harm. A pair of green eyes camouflaged in the bushes stays quietly until we pass never knowing she was watching us and ready at any given moment to strike if she felt threatened in any way.

Deep into the trees, the chatter had grown silent as most of the animals of the woods were hiding away in small fortresses built for such an occasion. I didn’t carry a gun, a bow or even a knife. My intent was never to hunt or kill the creatures of the forest. My journey into another world was only for knowledge and understanding. I believe that after several more visits into the trees, some of the voices will not be in fear but in welcome to the hunter who wanted only to walk in peace, quiet and understanding.

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Author Mike OConnor: The grandfathers clock

Author Mike OConnor: The grandfathers clock: The seconds tick away on the grandfather clock you inherited when grandpa passed away. It became a part of the house in its own way, a tall...

The grandfathers clock

The seconds tick away on the grandfather clock you inherited when grandpa passed away. It became a part of the house in its own way, a tall standing figure of beautiful wood and craftsmanship. Grandpa would take the key from a shelf on top of the cabinet and carefully wind the clock telling you if it turned to tight, it would break a spring and time would standstill.

Over the years, the old clock kept accurate time, the hourly chimes a welcome part of life in the house. Five chimes signaled dinner was about to be served. Six meant the start of the evening news. Eleven chimes meant removing the key from the shelf and slowly winding the old clock before going to bed. When the kids were out the twelve chimes had best find them in bed asleep.

I believe the old clock with all its beauty and function, kept grandpa close to me over the years. I could still see him winding the clock telling my young self how to care for it so my children and grandchildren would grow to love it as I did. All of us have something left to us from someone dear to our hearts, something we use as a pathway to speak to them when we crave their words of encouragement and love.

Some would say that’s nonsense but those of us who want to believe it to be true will always have peace within our hearts knowing love never really goes away but remains with us through the souls of those so special.

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Author Mike OConnor: I will be honest with you. I've been writing since...

Author Mike OConnor: I will be honest with you. I've been writing since...: I will be honest with you. I've been writing since I was a young child. It came easy for me to express myself through the written wor...

I will be honest with you. I've been writing since I was a young child. It came easy for me to express myself through the written word. Most of the pieces I wrote over the years were bits of truth sprinkled with a dash of fantasy but most of all they were expressions from both mind and heart. It was past time for me, a way to relax while digging through my mind to form a story.

After decades of creating works of the mighty pen, I switched over to the age of computers, where I taught myself to type and mountains of words poured out of my fingertips. I became known as a “Paragraph” writer as most of the things I wrote were no more than a paragraph or two. I couldn’t call them short stories, really as they were just too short. It was common for me to sit down for an hour and write two or three pieces saving them in a document folder then moving on with my attempt at writing a real book.

Over time I completed and published three books and accumulated hundreds of “Paragraph” pieces that sat in a document folder for years. I wanted to share these pieces but didn’t know exactly how until someone suggested I start a blog. They said to make one entry at a time and include a picture to compliment the story. I liked the idea so I dug into the saved document folder and began my blog. But it went nowhere.

With any given piece, there would be maybe two or three people who read what I had written. Some even commented with a thumbs up or smiling face. Not what I was hoping for. What I was hoping for was feedback, good, bad or indifferent. I wanted many people who enjoyed reading to read my words and tell me what they thought. Did a particular piece remind them of something or someone in their life? Did I touch a nerve or open a memory? But the thumbs up and happy faces prevailed.

I joined various writing groups again, hoping for some feedback and I must say I was disappointed with the results. So, where do I go from here? Forward is the only answer I have. I know in my heart that somewhere out there in cyberspace, some people would enjoy my stories and hopefully have a moment after reading to remember something or someone who touched their lives in similar ways to those in my stories. Those are the people I want to hear from. I want to start a conversation with those who want to share stories of their memories.

Life is one big story that consists of many paragraphs waiting to be shared. You don’t have to be a famous author to write one paragraph, heck you don’t even have to know how to type just use one finger as I did for a while. Share that paragraph with me. I would love to read it. Take a minute and browse through the hundreds of ‘Paragraph” pieces here on my page and leave me a comment if one touches you in some way. Who knows maybe we can create a place where words aren’t just words, but pieces of our lives wanting to be read and shared.

Mike

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Author Mike OConnor: Howling winds

Author Mike OConnor: Howling winds: The winds on this winter night howled like the voice of satan himself.racing down streets and back alleys covering the tracks of any poor s...

Howling winds

The winds on this winter night howled like the voice of satan himself.racing down streets and back alleys covering the tracks of any poor soul caught off guard becoming a victim of its relentless thrashings.

I pulled my jacket closer around my body using my woolen scarf to protect my face as I made the slow walk from work to my car that sat alone under a single street light covered with inches of snow that began earlier that afternoon. My co-workers left early heeding the advice of the news channel that issued a winter storm alert with heavy snow and blizzard conditions.

I had decided to work late not thinking about the chaos falling from the sky or the winds that howled its anger. Stepping out was a slap to my face and a shock to my body as nature punished me relentlessly as I made my way to that frozen pile of steel and the warmth soon to be. My remote didn’t work so I struggled to open it with the key but it snapped off in the lock leaving me to stand there in total disgust, and freezing a little more.

I muttered something as the lights in the parking area went out as did the building lights and every light as far as I could see. I was alone and locked out of my car and I was losing feeling in my hands and feet. My cell phone showed no service and the battery was all but dead. I had to make a plan and do it quickly. I walked back to the building and tried the door knowing it locked behind me when I left but, hoping by some chance it would be open. It was not.

Panic was knocking at the door as I headed out into the blizzard, not knowing where I would go, but wherever that may be, I had to get there and get there fast. I ended up in an alley where the winds were blocked and although the frigid cold was very much there, I felt a moment of relief. I knew if I didn’t find some warmth my time was limited before I froze to death. I heard a voice calling for me to come over, and as my eyes cleared and my vision returned, I saw an old man in the far corner of the alley telling me to sit next to him where he would share the pile of cardboard he was using to keep warm.

We sat in silence inches apart keeping the cardboard around us as we listened to the storm and its anger. Morning came and the winds had passed . The familiar noises of the city stirred me back to reality as I unwrapped myself from the cardboard wondering where the old man had gone? I had just finished that thought when he appeared in front of me holding two cups of steaming hot coffee he had gotten at the mission a few steps from the alley. We drank the coffee in silence, then he nodded to me and slowly walked away into his world, just one man helping another in need. My outlook on life changed that frigid winters night and it changed for the better.

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Author Mike OConnor: Little man

Author Mike OConnor: Little man: They grow before we even have a chance to notice. Toy chests filled with broken toys, a reminder of who they were. A bag of worn out and...

Little man

They grow before we even have a chance to notice. Toy chests filled with broken toys, a reminder of who they were. A bag of worn out and outgrown clothes waiting to be thrown out but we can't let them go. The shirt he loved so much, the one with a basketball on the front and his name across the back. You can still see him running through the house wearing it every day if you'd let him. And how many times did you have to take it off him while he slept so you could wash it, only to leave it lying beside him clean and warm?

Trophies filled the shelves above his bed and you remember each and everyone because you were there with him. Every practice, game and award ceremony found you cheering him on as you caught him looking your way with that winning smile he had just for you. Then one day without warning he was a man with things to do and people to see. You held that old shirt of his and cried like you did the first time you held him in your arms promising you would always be there to protect him.

His room is the way he left it when you sent him off to college, and sometimes at night, you swore you heard him in there playing a video game or talking to a friend on the phone. They do grow up before we even have a chance to notice but when they do come home if only for a few days all the loneliness disappears as he tells you about his classes and the girl he met and how he told her about you and knew she would love you almost as much as he did. Your little man was right there again filling your heart with all the love it could ever hold. You did good mom. You did real good.

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Author Mike OConnor: Horrors of war

Author Mike OConnor: Horrors of war: He sat alone in an over crowded veterans home. Tucked away in a corner watching, listening and thinking about his men. How they let him l...

Horrors of war

He sat alone in an over crowded veterans home. Tucked away in a corner watching, listening and thinking about his men. How they let him lead them into battle with no questions asked. He was a young lieutenant far from home with a  young wife and baby son who he had never seen. He carried their picture tucked into the headband of his helmet and would kiss it for luck on to many occasions.

He saw the horrors of war and brought it home with him as he tried to live a life and forget. But forgetting wasn’t in the cards for him like many others. He stayed in touch with some of his old squad those who had made it back, but they weren't the same as was he. Night sweats and terrible dreams forced him to sleep on the couch most nights, his wife doing her best to understand and give him space.

He drank a lot after the war, it helped him forget some things but it also made its way to his house, where it eventually destroyed his marriage . He raised a fist to his son one drunken night and another to his wife. They moved away and the bottle took their place sending him deeper and deeper into the darkness that filled his every breathing moment.

He got old and his body and mind strayed away, leaving him another old drunk who served his country but for reasons not well known back then, he couldn’t cope with life out of uniform. He tried to make sense out of everything but his mind wouldn’t quiet down and the sounds of his men crying as they lay wounded begging for his help rang in his ears for decades to many to mention.

Now he sits in a corner trying to remember what his wife looked like and if his son had grown up to be a fine young man? But those thoughts passed by quickly replaced with that never-ending darkness that these new meds are supposed to help with. He doesn’t take them if no ones watching because he doesn’t want to forget things that were the most memorable times of his entire life. Why would he want to forget Johnny Berger who was just eighteen years old when he lost his legs or Billy Sherman who died in his arms as the blood poured out of his neck. He can never forget looking into that young boy's eyes, promising him he would be ok.

There is no bigger nightmare than war. It is hell and monsters and all the terrible things a person could fear. It eats away at your mind leaving you with constant shades of darkness and shatters any dreams you made for yourself. But that’s just for some. Others somehow are able to leave the battles on the battlefield living lives, happy lives with restful nights and only occasional nightmares. Some of these men volunteer at the veterans' home, trying to help in any way they can to ease the pain of the shattered lives of their brothers in arms. They are all heroes in my eyes, these eyes that cry for those old men who sit in the corner craving one more drink waiting to join their squads one last time.

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Author Mike OConnor: Unspoken words

Author Mike OConnor: Unspoken words: Morning dew draped around the roses in our garden today. Tiny droplets of heavens tears coming to rest on love yet given. As the warmth ...

Unspoken words

Morning dew draped around the roses in our garden today. Tiny droplets of heavens tears coming to rest on love yet given. As the warmth began its day, the drops dried, and I chose the most brilliant colored flowers to give to you before you woke.

I cut my finger on a thorn proving again love sometimes is painful, but worth its pains and sorrows. Once inside, I put the roses in your favorite vase and placed it on a tray with your breakfast. Slowly I climbed the stairs into our bedroom where sleep remained with you.

The cup of coffee was cooling as you opened your eyes a smile forming on your pretty face.No words were spoken as decades together has spoken them times unknown. We sat in silence, sipping coffee, and smelling the roses that filled the room with a love of unspoken words.

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Author Mike OConnor: young at heart

Author Mike OConnor: young at heart: The realization that there are more years behind me than in front of me urges me to set a goal of sorts to do things, see places, taste ...

young at heart

The realization that there are more years behind me than in front of me urges me to set a goal of sorts to do things, see places, taste something new. The one thing I would very much like to have happen would be to fall in love again. My memories of love past will always be a part of me and who I was, but those loves remain only in my mind and that’s a quiet place.

Waking up next to someone special holding her softly smelling her skin, pulling her toward me in a tender morning moment. Those are some of the things I miss as I sleep alone with my thoughts and dreams. Some say at my age love is more about companionship but to me, it would be two people with history and memories to be shared with a willingness that speaks for itself.

Being alone doesn’t always mean being lonely, but filling the hours in a day can seem like an eternity for those with love still to give. Holding hands and stealing a kiss isn’t just for the young but for the young at heart as well.

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Author Mike OConnor: Loss for words

Author Mike OConnor: Loss for words: I am sometimes at a loss for the right words, words that so desperately want to be written. I like to call myself a writer, someone who ...

Loss for words

I am sometimes at a loss for the right words, words that so desperately want to be written. I like to call myself a writer, someone who can spin a yarn, create a tear, and capture my readers' attention with every sentence but Lately, everything inside of me is a darkness void of phrases and creativity of any kind.

Have all my words been used I wonder? Have I reached a pinnacle in my life when the ink dries up and I'm left with only what I have already put on paper? I hope that’s not the case but, this so-called writers' block has sunk its teeth into me and I fear won't be leaving any time soon.

In years past, I would be staring at a pile of crumpled up paper, half-written pieces of my thoughts that ran out of meaning after a few short sentences. Today I hit the delete key more often than not throwing the likes of the crumpled up paper in the garbage can of space. That gives me an empty feeling knowing I can't look at that pile and my attempts at perfection.

I will keep writing. I have to-it's the stories that define me and keeps a record of who I was and tried to be. Its a library of my thoughts and memories packaged in a volume of words to be read by future generations of my bloodline. It’s the only real way anybody will get to know the real me.

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