barbara fletcher

For a week I’ve watched the moments pass. Made mental notes, promised to find a moment and set the words down, anywhere — in pixels or ink. I’ll get to that. After the party. Once the dishes are put away. When I can pop away from the conversation. As soon as I can get to my laptop. Before I go to bed. And day-by-day the ideas slipped. Dissolved into that opaque soup of possibilities that passes behind the glass.

And I cannot see in. Cannot shatter the pane.

This is one of the worst feelings as a writer: that some of those glorious ideas we put on hold or save for later will disappear. Vanish for good. Even though they once flickered and lived inside us; those little lights that announced their existence: ignored for long enough, they leave us. Often for good.

The perils of abandonment.