I had thought perhaps I might not be able to write again. My past has held much turmoil and tension in the act of doing no more than living…muddling along each day, as in truth, we all must do.
Then, today, as I sat in my little hovel listening to a burgeoning gunfight outside between some drunks and some others who had done them some horrible wrong, it began. An itch in the back of my mind that I knew would never leave on its own. It started as a very mild thing and soon grew into the evil, cold, monster I knew and loved.
I know well, the only way to defeat the monster is to give in to its demands. To clear my mind of everything except perhaps the music that serves to isolate me further from the nuances and ghosts of the world, allowing the words to escape. An act of exhausting all that I have on a blank, unforgiving, damnable page.
And then the magic happens.
At first it slowly touches my mind. Then it touches what it must if there is to be any release. My feelings. I start to believe I can, by God, FACE that glaring, blazing white, barren page. Bringing nothing more than my puny self to do battle with it. Oh the trepidation and the sense that it is too great a thing, that I can never measure up to such a thing, that I am doomed to fail, is still there. And then, even as I joust at the windmill with my broom, my fingers touch the keys, stumbling like a blind man in an unknown forest. I touch another key, and another, and then it’s as if I don’t feel the hurt when I fall any more. God. Damn the pain.
I am given over to the words.
Maybe, even, if the hurts of my heart should end me, if I am no more, will the words be enough? I think they may very well be. I hope for truth, even as it seems as elusive as the fair maiden in the mist. You know the one. That fair, black haired beauty with gray eyes. The maiden that steals your heart, your peace, your rest. Your soul — if you take no care. Take care my friend, lest she strike your heart.
Will the words be enough? It’s all we can ask as we stumble across this mortal coil.
Muddling along.
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Lee Stephens ~ Novelist 
The loneliest endeavor in the world; writing. The least rewarded too, many times. Why do we do it? Because we can’t NOT do it. My best to you my friend for this inside look at the loneliness and creativeness of your world.
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