When the mind is a blank page.

Garlic is wafting through the house, the large industrial fan in my kitchen does nothing to alleviate the smell. I should be sitting here, taking in the heady pungent fragrance, as a form of meditation. Instead, I’m thinking about writing.

That sounds like heaven for most. Except I’ve not written this much is several weeks. Not even in my journal. Sure there have been various lines scribbled here and there in the pages of my personal mental sanctum sanctorum. But they read like the lines of a therapist’s notes “patient claims brain is fried” or, worse, a Twitter status “cereal for a late lunch.”

My friend, Kim, and I discussed our writing today, which is what I think has inspired this, so far, 124 words. She is “fried” and after launching her erotica book club  “Bawdy Bookworms,” I can’t say I blame her. It takes a lot of work to launch something of that magnitude as a sole proprietor.

I sit and look at my “day blog” the one that’s monetized, where I work and eek out a paltry sum, and am … blank. I have no idea what I want to write there, and question any relevance it might have. It’s affected me with everything else I write, as I’m still blank. Flashes of inspiration appear here and there, but nothing concrete.

That being said, I wonder if a fiction piece I started has affected my writing and caused this big “blank” page in my mind. King says, “Write what you know” and what has been on my mind lately was the recurring nightmare from my childhood. I haven’t thought about it in years, but I was in the shower and I remembered this dream. It was so clear, I started writing it down and developing it into fiction.

Therein lies the problem. I think. I’ll spare the details, but I always forced myself awake as a child when the person in my dreams was having his legs cut off. When I told my husband about the dream, remembering it exactly as it happened over and over so many years ago, he was horrified but encouraged my idea of turning it into fiction.

This means I have to finish the dream. No, I don’t have to dream it again, but I have to sit and imagine the dream and what it means. Why were his legs cut off? Do I need to write about was going on in my life to cause this dream? (I know, as it was ongoing, but that’s a can of worms I’m not sure I want to open.)

This dream… I have to gut it out and figure out how to end it. I’ll be quite honest with you, it’s times like this I wish I had Stephen King on speed dial.


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