It hadn’t rained for the past few months. The sky stayed clear, and the earth below dry, just like her thoughts. All inspiration was gone, just like the muse.
So she stared at the window, hoping the drought wouldn’t last too long. “It happens to all writers”, she convinced herself. “My time of complete mental block is just taking forever to lift.”
She sighed. Grabbing the cup of coffee in front of her, she took a sip and sighed again. “I never used to drink coffee. I need some awakening. I’ve been in the dark for too long.”
Words came so easily before. Now, her brain lacked any creative flow.
“No, it shouldn’t last too long,” she repeated, as if the words had some magical meaning. But they didn’t. The truth shall set her free.
“Maybe, I’m just not a true writer.” Ah that truth hurt like hell.
Because she really believed she had a gift. Words were her friends at some point. She would think of something, anything, and that mustard seed gave rise to a majestic story. Whatever the topic, she could write about it. No biggie. She had it all figured out.
Until a few months back, when she started focusing on selling her latest book, instead of writing more. The time she spent doing what she thought was something, but in reality was nothing, dragged her into a hole where inspiration wasn’t invited. Worse, inspiration didn’t matter.
She was trying so hard to fit in. To find the special formula that would make anyone eat out of her hand like she was pooping gold. And did she poop gold? To her, her stories were priceless. To the rest of the world? The world didn’t care so much.
And that was the root of the problem. She wanted everyone to acknowledge what a brilliant author she was, instead of not giving a darn, and keeping her writing fresh. There was so much to be thankful for. The bestsellers didn’t make a difference. Her stories were about human conflict. No sex, no violence, just tales of people who lived their lives the best they could, and were everyday superheroes.
Because her creative juices came from the streets of New York City. And she knew how to bleed these streets dry by watching, and listening.
After an everlasting period of no real writing, today, the drought finally ended, and for the first time she wrote something. Her mind ran, and she ran with it. It felt so good to be friends with words again, and not to worry about selling books.
She was an author. A real one. Riddled by self-doubt, and all kinds of negative thoughts about her worth and talent.
Doubt didn’t matter anymore though. Deep down, she knew she’d kick ass.
And all she had to do was write.