I sit at the computer desk with my glass of red wine with my ambient music playing on YouTube for background music. In front of me sits a blank page. A tauntingly empty page. I might as well be staring into an abyss.
My breathing steadies, and for a few moments, I feel as if I am sucking in air and suffocating. Words don’t come out. My fingers don’t move along the keyboard. Just… nothing. I am absolutely paralyzed.
To ease my mind from the shock, I take a sip of wine and stare at something else. There is a key holder at our front door that has the words “you are my sunshine” sewn above it onto a board. I let those words soften my stiff imagination. I allow that to be a focus.
The letters dance from my fingers onto the page, and suddenly, a story unravels. Effortlessly, I draw the images from my mind that come from truth.
Until I reach a few paragraphs into my story and something distracts me. Blocks me. I have come too far. My mind tells me that I either have to dive in deep or let the story go for awhile, until I’m ready to return to it and give it the attention it deserves.
Time becomes a hindrance. There never seems to be enough of it when there’s a schedule to keep.
The Storyteller within me whispers, “You’re making excuses. Get back to work.”
The Timekeeper within me argues, “You’re not being reasonable. If you dedicate your time to your story, you’re going to lose sleep.”
Storyteller says, “Sleep is for a Disney Princess. You’re a freaking writer. So write, darn it.”
This battle continues as I take breaths and move forward into the abyss which slowly transforms into a full length novel. I also realize that the Storyteller was right all along. There’s only time. There’s always time.
It’ll tick, it’ll tock, and it’ll bother the hell out of me. It takes all of my energy to peel my eyes away from the clock at the bottom right hand corner of the computer screen and remain focused on the story.
The Timekeeper goes back to her corner of the room and opens her agenda. She pulls her thick, dark-framed glasses closer to her eyes and tilts her head to the side as she gazes into her weekly tasks.
The Storyteller sits on the edge of her seat with her back rounded towards the keyboard and her eyes fixated on the clack-clack-clack of her typing, the smooth keys pressing beneath her fingertips.
Both escape into their separate spheres, neither one more real or legitimate than the other.