Where do the words go?

 Where do the words go when the fingers stop moving? Are they gone forever or just playing possum to get the creative juices going again? Where do the memories go when you believe you've written about all of them?

Where do the stories go when they've all been read time and again, and new ones are in a corner of your mind refusing to come out? Maybe it's time to stop looking.

I'm 72 years of age, and I believe I can say I've spent over thirty years of that writing about this or that, mostly about memories I didn't want to forget, and it turned out I have a gift for remembering pieces of my past from infancy to the present. To me, their building blocks and then a game of fill in the blanks.

To date, I've penned over one thousand very short stories, published three books, and thrown away scraps of jibber jabber not worthy of sharing. And what saddened me at first is that most of what I've written hasn't been read. There may be some truth to the saying, " You have to be dead before your work is noticed. Don't panic, I don't plan on going anytime soon.

Even though there are a few cobwebs in the old melon, I continue every day to find something new to write about. And it amazes me that I can still tap the keys and let my fingers do the talking. I've visualized a loud voice saying, STOP, that's enough but I ignore that voice, believing it's a bad angel who I can banish with just one sentence.

So I suppose I'll forge on, digging deep into my mind and my heart to try and find new meanings to old memories that I can turn into something when read, which will stir some memories for you, bringing a tear or two, maybe some laughter, and above all, will take you to places long forgotten.

Mike 2026