The Gift Of A Thousand Words

How do you write when you have no words? What do you write about? And, should you write at all?

I stare at the blank page on the screen. A minute or two go by without motion. Slowly, I hear my fingers clicking and clucking on the keyboard in synchronized tap dance. I feel the little curved lines on the keys and look at them in dismay, sensing unpleasant tingling in my right forefinger (the remnant of a recent mixer cutting mishap). The nerve is not healed and the wound is covered with a thick crust. I still get a slight jolt of nausea looking at it. My fingers, thankfully, don’t get distraught by the looks of it. Like a caring group of friends, they let the forefinger rest often, splitting its share of typing with the middle finger on the right hand and the middle and the forefinger on the left hand. It seems that they have practiced the artist replacement in this dance routine forever. Their performance is not hindered. Only mine, as I watch them absentmindedly.

I haven’t been writing for a year. Somewhere between the worries for my growing children, the demands of the work, and the hurdles of the post-corona existence, my creative juices have completely dried out and my physical essence has dripped away in tiny invisible drops. It took me three months to admit that I have disappeared from my own life, another three months to shift, kick, and turn around my fading soul, and six months to take a grasp on my daily life in a much happier, more resilient mode. And while I came back as a cheering exhausted warrior after a brutal battle, my flowy, rebellious, flute-like written voice turned practically mute.

I have so much to say that I have nothing to say. I am a writer without words.

My fingers pause the type dance, lift from the keyboard and grab a hot cup of coffee on a nightstand. Here too, they allow the forefinger to relax and stay to the side. I almost hear them whispering, “Chill, pal, we got this!” and my eyes swell with envy and tears. I wish, I was my own forefinger so that someone could take care of my load while I am recuperating from being alive on this planet.

I lick the spilled coffee drops off my hands and laugh at the tiny coffee stain silhouettes on the blanket. The grace of movement has never been my strongest suit. Before, I made up for its lack with the showers of the written words, which I laid on the page with elegance and precision of a sharp blade. Today, childish clumsiness is the only visible winner, and the lynched finger is the trophy.

When the passion burns out, I hear a familiar voice in my head, work is the only thing that keeps you going. You made a promise. Keep it. I know this voice. It´s the five-year-old girl inside of me. She is fierce, naïve, and just. She wants to build and play, be seen and heard. She doesn’t take any nonsense. She believes in promises. I do too. I think I just forgot about it.

I promised myself yesterday to write a thousand words every day for the next thirty days. It´s a myth that the magic of inspiration can cure the artist’s block. However, neither can the routine of getting behind the table at an assigned time and staring at the blank screen for three hours. I prefer to write in bed or on the sofa, in the comfort of cushions and zoning out the rest of the world. The magic dwells somewhere between these two precepts, sprinkled by the specks of various experiences, images, and sounds, imprinted on the inside of our skull. The magic lives in the work, required to be completed to recognize the exact magic.

What can one fit in a thousand words? Few thoughts? A sizable dash of emotions? A narrow stream of (un)consciousness? Torture for the bearers of the tied tongue?

A thousand words can turn into an expert opinion, an activity report, or a summary of academic research.

A thousand words can contain the will of a dying stranger.

A thousand words can be a love letter, cherished by two hearts.

A thousand words can tell the story, written by an eleven-year-old, about a child in a concentration camp and his daily wishes upon a star for the end of all wars.

Or, a thousand words can liberate a hushed desolate scream of a perpetual wanderer.

My fingers retrieve from the keyboard and gather in a meditation position in front of my breasts. I close my eyes and breath. The first breath is sent to bring more oxygen to my brain. I hold that one for ten seconds and release it very slowly to control the forthcoming dizziness. The second breath widens my chest, letting it rise and fall steady. The third one is directed toward the ailing finger with a metal-crushed fingernail, allowing the tingling to take the front stage for a brief moment. The fourth breath fills my stomach with air and I hold it again for ten seconds. The fifth breath I dedicate to the first thousand words of my writing season, hoping to capture these wild geese, running through my body like loose electrons, and bringing them to one place safely and soundly.

A thousand words can become a wish list. A jumbled lengthy prayer. A riverbed of options for the contemplative mind. Or, a gift to the longing soul. My no-longer-fading, brilliant, fierce, naïve, and just 5-year-old wise soul.

I hear the ring on the mobile calendar, a reminder that I have a business meeting in ten minutes. I pull the computer aside and rush out of bed, spilling the remainder of the coffee on the keyboard. Perhaps, one of these days I will dedicate a thousand words to the exploration of the origins and cause-effect matters for my nonexistent physical grace, wrapping it as a shiny jewelry box with the ruby of acceptance for my imperfections inside.

A thousand words can be a precious souvenir to restore and revive the strained voice of a writer.

A tumultuous, yet rewarding gift.