Dear Story,
I feel like you’re lost, and while I know I have to make myself write to find you, could you pretty please give me a hint on your whereabouts? My subconscious? My basement? Behind the veggies in the crisper?
I remember what you were last wearing: an ascot of cinnamon heather and an overcoat of sandy beige. (No, it isn't called orange. It’s all in the details, sweetheart.)
By the way, I refuse to utter the words Writer’s Block because that's Whiner's Bullshit. (Excuses, excuses. For now, let's just go with WB, for short.) Still, I’m feeling a little tapped out these days. I need some inspiration. A muse. Or amusement. Maybe it’s work. Maybe it’s too much revising and not enough creating. Maybe it’s too much Bravo TV?
I know. You’re right. It’s probably all three.(Okay, maybe not the Bravo.) Just remember, you don’t even have to text or send an e-mail or facebook me first. You can just show up. Unannounced. Out of that wide blue canopy we call a summer sky in Michigan. Go ahead, stalk away. You know where I live.
I’ll be waiting here with open arms or bated breath or some other cliché that I'll just have to delete later.
Yours,
A Humble Storyteller
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| Isn't this free stock photo of broccoli adorable? |
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