The blank canvas doesn’t bother me. Maybe because I’ve left the paints outside and they are too dried up to use.

But the blank sheet of paper – aka – the white blank screen is excruciating. The cursor’s vertical line blinks and screams, “Do something! Poke a key!”

I curse the cursor and tell it to wait a damn minute. “You can’t rush a good thought,” I tell it.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Two of my novels came to me serendipitously. A dream of an old farmer trying to pull open his screen door, repeatedly unable to enter. The last novel, an image of of man disappearing into an eery thicket as his daughter watches with curiosity.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Where is that new image, that thought that develops into a story? The one that is supposed to be novel #4? The one with characters who show up at whim for my entertainment and force me to write their words upon a page.

Maybe I shouldn’t be waiting for a character. Maybe I should be waiting for a thing, some object of curiosity. Like a musical instrument (The Red Violin).

Or an element of nature that throws a young girl into a new land. But not a tornado.

In the meantime, I’ll blog and give my cursor a little something to do.