A Writer's Nightmare

On the Way Out...my new footprints in time Vol. 5 Part 2

I envision a hazy corridor with a row of doors and a carpeted hallway only a Jack Nicholson could walk down comfortably. A shadowy figure emerges dressed in a dark colored trench coat and with both hands attempts to unlock the first door, the second and the third, all to no avail. Hunched over, the figure moves on to the next door and the next. The hands begin to shake as the figure reaches the last door on the left.

No need for a key. The door is slightly ajar. The figure, now startled, slowly closes the door and disappears into the night.

When words need to flow freely, they have always been there for me. I had no choice, really. As a former sportswriter with a deadline approaching within minutes right after a double-overtime game had come to an end and the bewitching hour was upon me. The clock was ticking!

There wasn’t time to be concerned with writer’s block.

January of 2021 was not the best month for this struggling writer. I mean the coronavirus had brought us to our knees in 2020. I, for one, suddenly realized the months to follow were to be more of the same as we all continued to scatter in all directions, trying desperately to make sense of it all.

What does it all mean? Beyond all those locked doors?

There was more going on in my head than a bout with writer’s block!

Chances are that shadowy figure is yours truly. Chances are this beaten and battered old man will soon stop halfway down the steps, make a u-turn, return to the last door on the left and return to my little place in the sun, still clinging to what words I have left, hopefully reconnecting with some of my followers — some of them scattered…gone…now following the wind, searching for survival in a world that seems to stay in choas.

January/2021 is a distant memory now. Eleven months later, I find myself in a Colorado town eyeing the autumn leaves flowing effortlessly across the beautiful landcape, accompanied by a brisk wind. The leaves seem to know right where they are going.

Maybe I do, too.

The old man has now thrown off his trench coat and placed his arthritic right hand on the last door on the left. He begins to push forward.

We shall see what awaits.