Blink . . . Blink . . . Blink

In the beginning . . .

there is a blank screen.

And a blinking cursor.

You type a word and sit. The cursor still blinks. Another word. It isn't waiting for coffee. It doesn't want to play a game. Or send an email. It's waiting for you.

It doesn't judge or berate or urge you forward. It blinks. It's the all seeing eye. Waiting. Lurking. Ready to grab hold of the tail of the next word and pull it across the page.

The cursor is a worker bee. It can back up, play hopscotch, highlight. It can run a marathon or take the faltering steps of a baby learning to walk.

It waits for us to give it input, then it gets busy.

Perhaps as writers, we should be more like the cursor. Open our minds. Don't judge or berate our characters. Don't nudge them forward.

Listen to them. Catch their thoughts and words, and drag them across the page.

The characters tell the story. We're just the cursor, pulling those stories across the page.