by Roxanna Kay

Created on: February 12, 2010

My autopsy will unearth black ink in my veins and blood on my laptop. My heart and soul are exposed; my blood, sweat and tears scattered within the pages of my words. The craving to feel the keys of my laptop under my fingers easily compares to an alcoholic taking the first drink of the day, “Aw, I needed that!” My fingers hustle and bustle over the keys as I empty my mind of metaphors, before I go insane. Curiosity eats at me, awaiting to discover what I have to say.

Writing is not something I learned – it was just there. The instant I wrapped my fingers around a fat pencil and placed it on my Big Chief Tablet, a whole new world opened up to me. As a child I would get so trapped in a moment, exploring the pasture with the sounds, smells and visuals curling around the depths of my soul. Descriptive words crammed in my head, a story would form and I'd get lost deep within myself creating a fictitious world. Then I'd step on a red thorn barefooted and get hurled back into reality. I'd hobble home late for curfew, in pain and in trouble. A loner even then.

As an adult – I still get trapped in a moment. Standing in a daze lost in awe of a babbling brook, wondering how to spell that sound. Or, home alone with nothing but words struggling to articulate true human feelings. My struggle is bitter sweet in the path of my love for the play on words as they web with emotion. Days can pass when I'm in the zone and I'm ignorant to that fact until my daughter threatens me to get in the shower. Forced to cross-over into reality and leave the fictional world behind.

Devastation slaps the back of my head – writer's block! Lordy, Lordy! A week goes by and I haven't written a word. This is tragic in my world. I feel lost, inadequate, not myself even a little bit. Fear of never feeling the keys beneath my fingers as I build a story from the ground up engulfs me. I lay in fetal position and contemplate sucking my thumb. Okay, I exaggerated there. But the rigid affects of insomnia hit me hard. Should I join the winos that wake up in the gutter of life? As fast as the writer's block slapped the back of my head…it’s gone. Thank God, because I was about to do something stupid.

The characters take on a life of their own as I watch the story unfold before my eyes. If I elaborated on that comment any further I’d be labeled a schizophrenic. But it’s okay…I’m a writer and it’s acceptable. Let me clear something up,

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