A cup of coffee to clear the cobwebs
A cigarette to help get the blood going
An empty page sits before me
Still I can't get the words flowing.
Many are the stories that beg to be written
Many are the legends that long to be told
The words of these now escape me
I fear my brain is getting too old.
I sit and stare and pray for inspiration
Day after day, week after week
I finger the metal keys of my typewriter
So cold and hard and fast asleep.
And that blank page-that damn blank page!
It sits so smugly in its bed
Mocking, taunting and teasing me!
It likes to play games with my head!
My coffee pot is empty; my ashtray runneth over.
I fear my literary end may be at hand
As my deadline grows increasingly near
The minutes tick by like so many grains of sand.
So its come down to this has it?
A final face-off with time.
With so very much against me
How can the eleventh hour be mine?
But I must rally my troops, boys!
Gather ALL my arms around me!
One long deep breath before I fire
As I bravely strike the first key.
One word, then two--a sentence is formed,
A whole paragraph upon the page!
"Mock me now!" I cry,
Fingers flying in a rage.
Well into the night I create
So many people, places and things.
My brain dances, my eyes grow wild!
My typewriter virtually sings!
By mornings light six chapters have been born
From a former infertile brain.
My publisher will be happy by noon today-
I am officially back in the game.
---Katy jean Leslie
My eldest son and myself at the time I wrote this.
I was 21 and he was 2.
When I originally wrote this we were still using typewriters--I had a big metal black one with gaps between the keys--no idea what maker--I got it from a yardsale back in the mist of time. The 'M' key would often stick. I also smoked a lot back then. Some how the two things seemed to go hand in hand. Now the typewriter is a laptop, the cigarettes have been replaced with pretzels or chocolate. The coffee, however, is the same. Only stronger. 
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