A middle aged woman sits at a table with a journal open in front of her and a pencil in her hand. A light on the table illuminates the pages in a glow of warmth which washes up onto the woman’s face as she stares down at a blank page.

 

WOMAN

Here I am

It’s four AM

The house is quiet for now

 

I left my bed

So warm and cozy

The dogs won’t leave their lair to join me

In my cold endeavor

At my little desk

In the dark of night

Before the dawn’s floundering light

 

To be a writer is to be alone

A single entity who can dive into limitless waters of thought

Who can swim to the very bottom of the pond of possibility

And dredge up a moment’s consideration

For compilation in a composition yet to be named

 

No, there is more to this than meets the eye

I do not rise in the death of night

Out of some sense of obligation

 

I rise because I have no choice

My characters call to me

They disturb me from my sweet slumbering

Yearning for resolution of the situation I wrote them them into the night before

 

They all want to know – what happens next!

So here I am

It’s four AM

The house is quiet for now

 

And I – I cannot think of a thing to write

MMN