Word puzzles

 It used to be simple for me to write and tell stories. I would open my mind, and a floodgate would open, spilling so many words that I could hardly keep up. Now, I fear that with older age comes a slowdown of my word river, which now seems but a trickle of its former self.

How is it that something once so powerful as a well-written story can turn into a game of hide and seek for the right words?

Life is like that, I suppose. You start with a young mind filled with ideas and stories to be told. You didn't care back then if people liked your work; it wasn't for them to like; it was meant to sharpen your tools for what greatness awaits. And so the journey begins.

You've lost count of the stories you've written, some just short blurbs and others books that never sold much. Again, you didn't care, as the stories were yours to do with what you pleased, like seeing copies in the library and people looking inside, some smiling before putting it back with the other dusty tales of someone's imagination.

Sitting down at my old desk with a single light flickering in the darkness always seemed to spark an idea that must be told. My words came to me in a flurry, and finally, an abrupt stop told me it was over the end. But I always wanted more.

I've discovered that writing gives my mind a rest from everyday life, which has gotten progressively more confusing. I fear that soon, the words will dry up and be locked away for good. And then what? Crossword puzzles, word find, or staring out a window, begging for inspiration. It's a slow loss that leaves me feeling empty and alone. I try to remember the characters in my books saying their names out loud, which I must admit would probably seem crazy to anyone nearby. Sometimes, I could rattle off dozens of names, each with their own story they allowed me to write. Other times, I struggled to find one name, but my mind was like a blank sheet of paper.

I feel blessed to have had such a long life and the chance to tell the stories I had to write. You have to understand that much of what I've put into sentences didn't always come quickly, but they did come. Some came to me so quickly that I questioned if it was my fingertips pounding out the words.

To date, I have written over seven hundred blog posts, with an overwhelming number of a dozen readers. But that doesn't bother me because one day, one of my kids or grandkids will stumble across a key drive with everything I've ever written. They will read them because they will be a part of who I was: my journey across vast oceans and neighborhood bars, my life as a hippy and a biker, my strong work ethic, and my never-ending love for each of them.

I don't foresee myself whithering away in a guest bedroom or a place for old veterans—not for me. I see my dog lying beside me, the clicks of the keys that put him to sleep, and me pounding out anything that stays on the screen. Jumbled letters that have no meaning make me smile because I'm doing what I do best: searching for words in my puzzled mind.

                                                                                  

                                                                  

Mike 2025

Once again, this is a reminder that I write stories, not so much facts. There's no need to contact me to ask if I'm okay. Thanks for reading.