It stares back at me. A blank page, perfectly formatted, the letter cursor winking at me mockingly. Self doubt floods in, overpowering and unstoppable. The lucky ones will brush it off as a temporary case of writers’ block. Not me though, I know better. It’s more of a permanent thing. It’s something that remains even as my fingers itch to press the keys that will make my own literary composition. Frustration washes through me as I stare at my own failure. My failure to do the one thing that I love.
My words do not flow with ease and flood the senses to shape thoughts and beliefs into something new, something that remains in the mind to build fantasies, dreams, and goals. Something that can become a reality and build the future, regardless of a genre. Something that can be revisited as long as a heart somewhere desires it. Something that can be shared whenever it is needed. Something solid to hold onto and believe in.

I want to create a new world in a mind, and have a body’s senses experience what the mind comprehends. It’s not just writing fiction, it’s generating a life, in the mind, that is reality as long as the words on the page continue to speak. It’s one of the only kinds of magic that exist. Those who possess the ability to wield this magic are a rare and special breed, authors. Only when we witness their magic, do we believe in a different life, maybe even in a different world. As each story remains in our hearts and minds, our bodies are gifted with a little bit of magic. Magic we all share, Imagination.