Falcala in one hand, long sword in the other ....

I have begun to re-enter the story line. I am re-immersing myself in Gwalchmei's story - One Knight's Story - I am picking up the threads - starting to see him in my mind's eye - putting the pieces back together in their proper place and sequence.

I repost the item below - from May of 2010 - in honor of the return to the story.

Blocked


He sat alone in the dark, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the monitor, hands poised over the keyboard, ready.

But ready for what?

He had started this piece a dozen times. All he ever got was a sentence or two and then ... nothing. Whatever it was he tapped into to write would just leave. And he would be left - hands poised over the keyboard ... ready.

His music had failed him. He often used music to set the mood - to contact his muse - to put him in his writing place, but this time ... nothing. Nothing but false starts. Disjointed thoughts and sentences. Incomplete ideas.

And there was a deadline.

Deadlines never bothered him. He always managed to produce. On time. Good work. The editor was usually happy with what he'd do. No, deadlines never bothered him. Just the writing. Just finding the idea and then getting it down. Following the thread. Letting the music show him the way.

He picked up his iPod and started scrolling through his music again. He knew, KNEW, there was something here, somewhere, that would open the door for him. He just had to find it. The blank page was winning - and it had never won before.

He took off his headphones and walked into the kitchen, put on a pot of water for tea. Some good strong black tea, with a dash of lemon - what he sometimes used to relax. The same thing he used when he was sick - but minus the honey and the brandy.

Soon the water was ready, the tea was steeped, the cup warm in his hands as he stood at the window looking out into the moonlit night, his face a ghostly white in the moonlight. He could see his reflection in the glass of the window. He stared into his own eyes, ghostly visage that they were.

And his idea came to him.

He hurried to his keyboard, put on his head phones, and the music .. oh, the music, the music took his idea and showed him wondrous things in his head. He wrote and wrote, following the thread of his idea until it fleshed itself out and showed itself to him. Complete. And he reveled in it. He knew this was it. He knew this would be good.

He knew he had won. He had beaten the blank page.

This time. Until next time .....

Ndinombethe.