If you are a writer of any sort, you will have run into the ever awesome ‘writer’s block’, or as I like to call it, a Flow Block. For me, this may come after a wonderful burst of inspiration and all my thoughts have been put on a piece of paper, making room for new ones to grow. Or, as has been more common lately, it comes first thing in the morning, with a foggy brain and tired eyes, and decides to chill with me all day. I want to write, oh I want to write so badly. But there is nothing brewing up there except the thoughts of how much coffee can I consume in the next 5 minutes before my child wakes up and I lose my solitude.
During times like these, I have started to free write. I pick a topic at random (literally sticking my finger in my book of writing prompts), set a timer for 10-15 minutes, and I write. I don’t worry about spelling or anything else. I just write. Sometimes this jiggles the handle, and the ideas for what I want to be writing about (usually my book) start to bubble and froth in the cauldron in my mind. Other times, all it does is create a paragraph or two that I stick in my files, and hold on for glancing at at some future date. But, at least I am writing.
Here is one of those paragraphs or two, cleaned up of course. Also, I have chosen in this case to leave the ending somewhat abrupt, instead of wrapping up the end into a little package. It was, after all, only 10 minutes of a scribbled memory from my childhood, and there really isn’t any ending.
The house was siding covered in yellow paint with white trim around the edges. Right in the middle of the front of the simple box was a simple wooden door with a small window to the left and a larger window to the right. In front of the simple brown door was a small set of concrete stairs with wiggly metal railing, black spires twisted in attempt at looking fancy and upper-class. The concrete stairs were covered in green Astro-turf that had begun to peel and tear, revealing sections of glue covered grey underneath. A straight line of sidewalk shot out from the stairs that created a path from the house back to the main street. On the left side of the sidewalk was simple green grass, dotted with the occasional bright yellow dandelion, or more often, the remnants of ones death. On the right of the sidewalk, though, was the star. The item that no one else had in their yard, something that every year, for a brief moment of time known as spring, between the frigid snow and the egg-frying sun, bloomed and overflowed with light-pink beauty. The scent was intoxicating and wonderful, something I can still pick out today as we drive through neighborhoods. A sweet, simple crab apple tree with branches just right for climbing and sitting as a toddler. And every spring, I would climb. It was always a sign that the chance for more white flakes falling from the sky had begun to shrink, and the snow packs would soon be melting away from Heart Mountain, which meant I would be able to expose my bright white legs to the brilliant sunshine for the first time that year.