The Empty Page

So many distractions! Each time I sit down to type my novel, I find something to divert my attention. What is the matter with me? I promised myself that this time nothing would distract me from the goal. Sixteen hundred words a day until at last I had a draft. I wrote a synopsis, so I already know what’s going to happen. Now, I only need to sit down and focus. Why is that so hard? Here I am at the computer. I’ve looked at email, checked out my social network, filed my nails, and made two cups of tea. I’ve run out of distractions and still nothing.

A beautiful butterfly flutters by the window. Its wings, a transparent blue and white, open and shut seductively as it sits on a flower sipping nectar. Look at him, after gorging himself into a coma and spending weeks inside a crowded shell, he breaks free to fly through the air in festive dress looking for his mate. Then, poof, it’s all over. In some secluded spot on earth, he folds his wings for a last time and expires. I envy him. His life, so short, ends exquisitely. I am still waiting for my wings to form so I, too, can experience that moment of glory when life’s most profound purpose becomes clear to me.

Every day I perform this ritual. I come into my special room. I designed this space so that it reflects who I am. Pictures of my favorite writers hang on the wall looking down at me. They were supposed to be my cheerleaders. I don’t hear them cheering me on. Instead, they scowl in a most pretentious way. “You dare to include yourself in our illustrious company?” they sneer. "Why, you can’t hold a candle to us. We devoted our lives to our craft. We kept company with fellow writers, drank to our writing, immersed ourselves in the words of our craft. Yes, we proudly bear the name, writer. You, fraud, stop trying to don the sacred mantle of authorship by decorating a room with our likenesses. Where are your words? Words make you a writer. 
 You have none. We refuse to look at you. Imagine our eyes closed."

I won’t listen to those pompous fools. They can’t fool me with their bravado. I read their biographies. I know all about the drunken nights, the depressions and yes, even the suicides. No my friends, I am in very good company. We are cut from the same cloth, we writers who sit in seclusion trying to bridge a window into the world with our printed words. I know of your secret fears and the days on end when no words issued forth from your hands to paper. No, don’t try to fool me with your pomposity, you humbugs!

I shall go for a walk, and when I get back, I shall write non-stop for two hours. This caterpillar needs to emerge from the cocoon. It’s a lovely spring day. Sunlight will revive my spirits and inspire me to write. Look at all the tulips. What artist came to my town to paint? His box of colors must have slipped and covered all the gardens in town. Purple, pink, orange, white, red, yellow, and some multicolored ones; surround me and infuse my senses with their vibrancy. I want to paint my computer screen with words as lovely as these flowers which like butterflies, live each spring for only a few weeks. They leave behind the promise of return; au revoir, not goodbye.

It’s time to go back, but wait. The coffee shop where they make the best lattes is around the corner. A latte is just the ticket. The espresso will clear my head and infuse me with pep. Then I can go back to write. I quicken my pace so as not to waste time and arrive at the door to the shop. “Mr. Espresso” reads the sign which is printed on a smiling coffee cup that has arms and legs. I pull open the door that has a sign on it reminding me to keep the door closed. “I always do”, I thought. “There’s no need to remind me again and again”, but of course, the sign ignored me and continued to make its request.

The girl at the counter flirts outrageously with a thin young man who smiles back at her. I see that she flutters her eyes at him just as that butterfly fluttered his wings. Well, it is spring after all. Everything is doing the flutter dance; all except me!

I have to clear my throat three times before she interrupts her fluttering to take my order. I need to repeat my request for an extra shot because the young man is distracting her with his grin. When she hands me the latte, I decide to drink it here in the shop. I had debated whether or not to carry the drink back to my writing den but decided that I might as well stay here and drink it while it’s still hot. I eye an empty plush chair in a secluded corner. The owners of Mr. Espresso decorated their store with an odd array of mismatched upholstered chairs and sofas arranged to face each other in conversation groups. I manage to find the one lone chair and grab it. From here I sit and sip my coffee drink as I observe my fellow coffee sippers. In one set of seats a group of four women are chatting and giggling. They are all dressed in exercise clothing and look to be thirty something. I hear snippets of their conversations, “…husband…kids…she said…” Obviously these women are married house wives whose children are in school and whose hubbies are working at some job or other where they don’t quite make enough money to satisfy the ambitions of their wives.

Just then, I spot my friend Lilly at the counter. I know she is asking for a chocolate cappuccino with whipped cream. “Lilly,” I call out. She sees me and signals with a nod of her head that she will join me in a moment. Lilly is a beautiful woman. I am jealous of her tall slim body, the elegant way she pairs clothing pieces so that she resembles the models of a fashion magazine. Her voice is wispy and musical. People always have to lean in to listen to her, and they always want to hear what she has to say. Lilly has a way of making anyone in her presence feel important by the way she looks into their eyes while they speak as if no one else in the world exists in that moment. Everyone loves Lilly. I wish I were more like her.

Lilly drags over a chair and sits next to me. We chat. She is an artist, a painter. She tells me that she is preparing for an opening in a gallery. Her whole face sparkles as she excitedly tells me about it. And of course, she would love me to come to the opening. She’s expecting a large crowd. Humph! I guess she doesn’t suffer from painter’s block. Did I mention that I am insanely jealous of her?

Finally, she has to go and so do I. We hug and promise to call each other soon; I won’t; will she? I wait until she leaves Mr. Espresso before I too, leave. I amble slowly on the two block walk back to my house. Around me are traffic sounds, the whoosh of cars passing, horns honking, the rumble of trucks. As I turn away from Main Street, my eyes are treated once again to the tulips smiling up at the sun in a courtship ritual that will soon end.

I reach my house, climb the stairs, and return to the writing den. I left the computer on, and I see dancing fish, my screen saver, parading about the monitor. I watch them for a few minutes before dismissing them all with a click of the mouse. Well, here we are again!