Challenges of being a writer.
| My ideas were akin to the racing waters of a river after a tumultuous storm. I knew that if I didn't get them on paper, they would be lost in the abysmal pit of uncaptured insight. In the middle of some mindless task, I looked frantically for pencil and paper. Finding nothing more than a fast food napkin in the kitchen junk drawer and a crayon under the dining room table, I searched for a quiet place to dispense my creativity.
I grabbed my coffee and headed to the back porch. It was my morning retreat, and I could usually find the serenity I needed to freely express myself. Then came "the birth." Not a child, mind you, but the birth of a new housing development. Across the lake that abutted our land, the construction had begun. The beeping of tractors in reverse, the slam of dump trucks unloading their dirt, and the loud, foul language of the workers drifted across the lake robbing me of my tranquility. Sighing, I scratched a few words onto the napkin, and headed inside to find a more suitable place to write.
When we bought the house, I had chosen the sitting room as my special space. The décor gave it a comfortable, country ambience. I decided to retire there to work on my craft. The thoughts still relatively fresh in my mind, I jotted down some notes. Halfway through what I thought was an unbelievably unique line, the doorbell rang. A little frustration building in me, I went to answer the door. Three smiling eight-year-old faces greeted me. My heart softened a bit, and I told them that, yes, they could come in and play with my son. At this point, my ideas were dwindling, fading. I didn't want to lose them. I knew the boys were going to cause a ruckus, and I needed to get the words on paper as soon as possible.
I made my way up the stairs to my bedroom. My husband was still asleep. If I were to sit on the bed, he would awaken. I looked around the room until my eyes fell on the closet. It was a fairly large walk-in. Before I ventured over, I grabbed two overstuffed pillows. This is crazy, I thought, but it simply has to be done. Trying desperately to hold on to my notions, I moved a row of shoes quickly and carelessly, and threw down my pillows. I turned on the light and closed the door. I couldn't hear a thing. My mind was settled. I had finally found my silence.
I sat with my crayon poised above the napkin, trying desperately to recall all the wonderful inspiration that had me on this treasure hunt for peace. Defeated, I realized it was lost. There was only so much time before those splendid ideas became distant, jumbled theories. They were gone- whisked away like dead leaves in the autumn wind.