Sometimes, the writing comes easy and sometimes it’s like a reluctant child who’s been asked to stop playing. “Come and eat. Dinner’s ready.”
And, so there’s a bit of a stand off while both parties look at each other wondering who will give in first. There’s a huge, palpable silence while parent and child square off, considering the possibilities.
Hanging in the air between them is a closed fist. Everything that needs to be said is locked inside it. If they can pry that fist open words will spill out.
Everything hinges on what happens next. Which one of them will say the one word or phrase that will start to pull those fingers apart? If one of them backs down, that fist closes forever.
So, on those days when the act of writing is like a clenched fist, I imagine that stand off between parent and child. Rather than walk away, I begin the slow process of looking for an opening … ANY kind of opening so that I can slip inside. [gplus count=”true” size=”Medium” ]