Enough said

 Like most writers, I sometimes go blank. No matter how hard I try to put words on paper or screen, I sit at the keyboard, my fingers poised but with no action. I try conjuring up memories of my past, but it's as if I had none. Then, a panic rushes in as I ask myself if I will ever write again.

Sitting here and staring at a blank screen seems useless, but I keep telling myself that words will flow again if I'm patient.

A dozen empty coffee mugs and a pile of dirty plates sit on my desk, and the past week's morning paper lay on the lawn where they were thrown. My voicemail is full, and the mail has gone unopened. I ask myself how long I will go on like this before I snap, but I don't have an answer for that either.

I am trying to remember how long it's been since I slept, showered, or shaved; everything is just one big blank sheet of paper screaming out for words. Then, as if the proverbial lightbulb went on, my fingers moved on the keyboard. Slowly at first, then speeding up to a full gallop, the words racing through my mind at breakneck speed.

I heard myself laughing, no screaming, as the words rushed in with no time for pause because I feared I'd lose them again. I wrote into the night and the next day, finally writing again about everything that came into my mind.

The paper boy looked through the window, saw me slouched on my desk, and called the authorities. They didn't know what to believe happened as they looked at hundreds of pieces of blank paper scattered about and the computer screen smashed to pieces. It seems like another writer with writer's block, one officer said. It's a shame because, in his prime, he was well-known and successful. What was the title of his last book? He asked.

The officer thought for a minute and said I believe it was titled;  Enough said.

Mike 2024