Writing

The path before me is tinted gray like pencil marks leading me on. Each footstep grows lighter while I watch in wonder as whole worlds are formed just for me. I peer across landscapes built of suburban houses, English flats, woodland cottages, shoebox apartments, and palaces. The blades of grass pinch at my ankles, so with a few keystrokes, I remove all greenery.

My characters are whispering, shouting, accusing, comforting, debating in their homes. Their billowy sleeves cradling each other or pushing them away. Pink prom dresses covered in shame or delight, but that is all up to me.

I detect apple pie, banana pudding, peach cobbler, mint toothpaste, chocolate ice cream, fresh baked pastries, and perfume that reminds me of winter sweeping across the air. The lights are casting beams of importance over everyone but me while I sit in the back and watch.

We all begin to nibble on croissants, soft, fluffy, and dabbed in butter as the princess is about to tell her betrothed she killed his mother or however the tale spins itself. Now, the main character is coming out to his parents, and I told him he should make brownies. He did, and they taste heavenly, chewy and delicious.

Then, the movie stops, the film chokes on itself, and I am back, in my bed, chair, car, or wherever inspiration hit. My fingers grasp at the silk of my hair ribbons to remember how the princess’s gown felt. I edit dialogue and scenes, and I yearn to write something spectacular, a piece of prose I will not regret the following morning. I want the gift of not pulling at my hair in regular, boring hair ties, not silk ribbons or pearl combs because a story did not strike my fancy like it should have. I want to travel to England, so when I write stories set in Britain, I do not sound like a copycat American.

The camera starts to roll, and I sit back, in what I want to be a plush, velvet red armchair, but is really a bed with too few pillows, to watch the story of my creation, and one day, I hope it will be good enough for me.