Words have failed me these last few days. I haven’t been able to write since last week. I’ve tried, oh have I tried. Yet the words don’t come. I write my thoughts instead while my novel collects dust. New ideas flow into my head but never on the paper grow. I can feel my dreams dissipating even as I sit here. What is the point of going on, when I’ll never amount to anything anyway?
And I smack myself.
Yes, I’ve had a hard time these last days but next week the words will flow faster than I can keep up. The ebb and flow of writing is like an ocean tide. And like the ocean’s current, it can sweep you off your feet and all but drown you in its power. Or shove you against the reef and rocks until thought leaves a black hole in your mind where nothing but emptiness fills the pages. Can you control the tide? Do you have the power of the moon?
Like a story blooming across pages, ocean waves hide many things. Dangers and wonders both are masked below a gentle swell. Dive under the dark waters to find the darkness brighter, the story deeper, then you thought possible. And like those dark waters, the story may hide from you, as it’s hidden from me. Yet dive in another day, another hour even, and the waters may reveal treasures as you’ve never dared dream before: a magic reef full of life and color, a sunken ship with buried gold, a school of fish in its graceful dance or a hunter and it’s prey.
So, with storm angered waters, my ocean tides hide my treasures. Yet when the sun breaks out from behind its prison of clouds, and I dive in again, the majestic dreams of moon beams might shine upon my words again.