A Snipe Hunt
A writer in search of a story
Distractions. Excuses. I pick up my pen — put it down again — tap the side of the desk. They say writing is routine, ritual, perseverance. I snatch my coffee, nod at my children, mumble about how I have writing to do, and plunk down at my desk each morning. I’ve created my routine.
Most days, I stare at the walls or out the window or at my cuticles. I sip my coffee. It tastes of sunrise — full and warm — soothing. Just enough bitterness to startle, jolt. A wake-up call. An acquired taste. A need.
I sip again. It is my calm before the deluge, the moment of clarity before decisions need to be made and children need to go to school. It tastes of peace and tranquility. Solitude. A sigh of pleasure and a sigh of resignation at the same time. It tastes like meetings and deadlines, the afternoon push and after-dinner conversation. It tastes like home.
They say writing is observing.
I pick up my pen again — flip open my writer’s journal — blow out a breath through my teeth. I flip through the pages looking for inspiration, straining to hear the whispers of a story.
They say that story is a recipe — the perfect combination of character, plot, and voice with a dash of movement and a pinch of urgency. They use words like Cooking, Growing, Composting. I sigh. I’m a writer, more alchemist than chef, more smith than gardener.
I roll phrases across my knuckles, run shell games with words, and juggle punctuation for fun. Yet my page is blank. Every morning, I sit at my desk, hunting for snipe.
Story eludes me.
