sitting at her writer’s desk. or maybe she is on the porch. or at a park in Brooklyn with her laptop trying to write. staring at a blank page. or a white computer screen, the cursor blinking, daring her to move. she doesn't even have a full idea but she knows the name of her next character. no outline. no arc. no antagonist. not even a fancy epigraph to start the story. nothing. no book cover. no new author photo yet. no second or twenty second draft, no input from the editor yet. no awards yet or school visits. just the white screen, and the cursors empty pulse. what if she can't do it again. what if that last book was the last book?
maybe she closes the laptop and walks home, stops in the kitchen for coffee. and while stirring in half & half she sees the bookshelf. the bookshelf that she keeps for moments like this. the bookshelf that has all of the books that she has already written. the books she has already written can fill one whole row. a whole row. she sits back down and writes. she knows that she can write another sentence. and so she does.
* * * * *
The prompt was to reveal something.