As I sit pen over paper or hands poised above the keyboard I wait.  Silent.  Hoping.  Eyes closed.  So that I might catch your seductive scent waft into the room like some welcoming blast of a trumpet, or hear your light step as you cross my threshold.

I do not have to peak to know that just outside my window, gnashing its teeth, pulling its hair, and pacing, is my worst fear.  The terrible feral worry of every writer, that bastard child of self doubt, and with her she brings endless pages filled with only regret.

So still I sit, wondering when I will again hear your honeyed words in my ear.

Know that I wait with bated breath, as I have so oft before, for you to tell me a story…


Awakening Muse By Don Lawler and Meg White