I’m sitting at my laptop listening to violin music through earbuds while Ken is watching a movie nearby. I’ve been waiting all day for my muse to stop by and whisper a topic for today’s post in my ear while I’ve been cleaning, organizing my craft room, and baking bread (yes, I really do bake bread once a week). Sad to say, he’s been a no-show today.

Or did I mistake him for a dust bunny as I vacuumed under the desk?

I have consulted my writing journal, searching for a sentence or even just a word that will call out to me, “Here I am. I’ve been waiting to be taken up and written down.”

I walked down to the mailbox thinking maybe fresh air would do the trick. Maybe the topic would be there, a letter to myself. Alas, only bills and catalogs rested there.

Where is my writerly self-esteem that I so confidently taught my students to nurture? At this point, I’m wondering why I thought I had 31 things to say to the world about my life.

Could I be a 15-slice girl?

Or maybe I’m just really tired.

I remember Eve Merriam’s poem and hope flickers…

Morning is

a new sheet of paper

for you to write on.

Whatever you want to say,

all day, until night

folds it up

and files it away.

The bright words and the dark words

are gone

until dawn

and a new day

to write on.