After punching and scrunching my pillow for what seemed like hours, I untangle my legs from the twisted sheets and crawl out of bed. I force my feet to shuffle down the hall to my office, toes burrowing into the plush carpet with each step. I flip the switch and am blinded by the sudden glare from a bulb coiled like a cobra and guaranteed to last at least five more years. Feeling my way to my desk, I drop into the scuffed leather chair, my butt settling into its permanent indentation that’s sadly only grown larger.
A quick tap on my mouse starts the computer fan whirring quietly and the monitor awakens to the white glow of the still blank document I had stomped away from earlier. My fingers rest on the keyboard, waiting for neural impulses from the primary motor cortex. My toes tap dance between cables and cords. My knee jiggles. Unfortunately, other things jiggle along with it.
The wall calendar that summarizes my entire life (abbreviated to fit neatly within two-inch square boxes) catches my attention. Usually delighted by its pictures of adorable baby sloths hanging upside down yet smiling right-side up, tonight my amusement is tempered by the large red circle drawn around the tenth of the month.
I spin my chair ninety degrees and eye a wall of books. An entire shelf of writing craft tomes taunts me. I spin the remaining 270 degrees, then repeat the full circle several times, stomach growing queasy, sweat beading on my brow. Each time the sloths whoosh past, the red circle below them gapes like the ravenous maw of Hell.
I skid to a stop, minimize the concept-challenged document and click the e icon. That proprietary gateway to everything and nothing. So help me, I will web-surf until my fingertips bleed if that’s what it takes. But first, a quick check of my email. Junk and ads and blogs, oh my.
I click on one. The topic: Show, Don’t Tell.
Holy crap! Why can’t I ever think of something like that to write about?