empty plates and expectant pages

Dear K-

I was happy to hear from you again. It has truly been far too long, and I was beginning to think you had forgotten about me. You are no doubt living an exciting and amazing life in Slovenia, what with Nejc and all, and surely it wouldn’t be too hard to forget about us back in the states. Just know that I hadn’t forgotten about you.

This letter is actually difficult for me to write. It isn’t that I don’t have the desire to write it, but more along the lines of that I have very little about which to write. My life lately has been like a railway timetable. It is just a serious of times and destinations, flipping rapidly to refresh once one task has been carried out. There is little adventure to it, and it is more of just a routine and progression of time. Trains come in, trains go out, and the dazs keep slipping by.

There’s that expression people commonly use, when they feel overwhlemed or overworked, where they exclaim ¨my plate is full.¨ Well, right now I am the opposite. My plate is completely bare, void of any substantial foodstuffs or tasty morsels. In fact, one could say it was like a styrofoam plate. It feels flimsy, cheap, and brittle. Patiently it sits in my hands, waiting to be loaded full. I just can’t seem to decide what to eat.

When I try to work on the novel I run into some similar complications. The first few chapters are laid out upon a tenative frame, and I believe I have some good sketches and concepts for further developing the characters. However, there is always that point in the night, deep in my work, when suddenly I cannot push any further. Everything is barren and blank, bleached and bare. The few thoughts that piddle around in my head are frail and useless.

Sometimes, when I really feel stuck, I bring out the old typewriter. Nothing makes you feel more productive than when you hear that rattling snap of the keys pounding their strokes into place. It’s the percussive soundtrack to progress and accomplishment. These days, however, I have more and more frequently found myself staring listlessly at the blank page. I thread the fresh, supple paper into the maw of the beast, pose my fingertips on the proper keys…but then I can’t bring myself to write. The page lies pure and unsullied, waiting expectantly. Minutes turn into hours and hours into days, yet still I feel the same and the page remains.

As always, I miss you. Hopefully soon I will find the ink and the inspiration to fill my pages. Until then,

--K