The Writer's Mind

Creativity can spring from a single word. So, I asked my Facebook fans to give me one (word, that is). Here is what I got: void, onomatopoeia, gentrification, Stygian, and hemoglobin. I thought about writing a story or poem for each word; however, the urge to string these crazy words together into one story proved too appealing. Read on for the result.


      Void. Nothingness. That's what I'm dealing with. No ideas whatsoever, which really sucks as a writer. So, I start looking around the room, scanning for inspiration. Pillow? No. I don't think so. I don't feel like writing a story about smothering--at least not today. And pillow fights are out, too. That is, unless I can use a pillow against an armed intruder. Naw. That makes me think of smothering again.

      Buzz. Bang! Pow! How about a little onomatopoeia? Surely that'll spark something. Yet, I'm clacking away, and the sounds are giving me nothing. Poof. That idea was a bust.

      I go outside. Maybe some fresh air will help. I stroll the neighborhood, and when I return to my house, I realize my lawn is awful. The worst. My lawn, desperately in need of gentrification, is the blight of the neighborhood. Maybe I can use that. Neighbor kills neighbor over unsightly weeds. It could happen. Right?

      Rain drives me back inside. Thunder cracks. Five minutes ago I was enjoying the sun, and now the inside of my house looks like a Stygian cave. Darkness, surely I can use that. It's late, and she's walking home. Of course, she's alone, and the blackness of night covers her shoulders like a cape. She feels uneasy. No, I feel uneasy. And bored. Ugh! This is not working.

      Hopeful it will disengage my inner critic, I pour a glass of wine. I stare into the glass, swirling it, creating a sanguine vortex. Suddenly, it's no longer wine. I imagine little Jet Skis of hemoglobin riding waves, transporting oxygen to tissues and organs.

            I take a swig. Time to get to work.