Dancing with the Aurora

Jaywing Fuller
You sit and stare at a blank sheet. You wrack your mind. You look within. You do this for hours. Yet the page remains blank, because your mind regurgitates nothing but senseless clich├ęs and empty platitudes.

The next day you get up believing that this day will – must, be different. But, it isn’t. Nor is the day after, nor the day after that.

How could this be? Your first novel was well received. You avoided the sophomore curse with a second that was a best seller. You wrote a compilation of short stories. Your future was bright.
Then, without warning, nothing – not a single idea takes form in your mind.
You ponder the consequences. Without ideas, there are no stories. Without stories, there is no writing. Without writing, a writer’s life – your life, becomes meaningless.