My fingers go tap tap on the keys.  A nervous energy careening through the swirls begs to be  released.

And yet, there is doubt in the whirling gray matter in my skull that hinders the accumulating energy in my fingertips.

Are they writer’s blocks? Story ideas abound, but there is hesitancy in my words.

The drive is there, but the tools are mist. I grasp at them but they dematerialize at my encroach.

What unseen force, literary incubus, or ravenous monster, is devouring my confidence in poetically expressing the stories and characters I have congregating in groups in my head like an overtaxed party?

Another mystery to be solved. Until then, the remedy is to write, and write and write. The singular act of a writer; form feelings and thoughts into words. Letter, by letter, syllable by syllable, word by word, phrase by phrase, sentence, then paragraph then page.

This diabolical beast sapping my confidence will be banished. It must. Even though I am certain it is a rapacious fiend that returns cyclically in its ambiguous phantasmal shape to frustrate me. I’m certain all writers have succumbed to its influence,  great and small, famous and obscure, legend and novice.

Writer’s block, sapped confidence, halting missteps, whatever this mercurial force is, it still can’t stop the impulse in my head, heart and fingers to tap, tap, tap on these black and white squared keys.

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