All I Wanted Was to Leave a Comment

Updated on February 5, 2018
Cheryl OMalley profile image

Cheryl Is a literary historiographer preparing for an MFA in creative writing.

What to Do Late On a Snowy Night

I've often heard writers, entrepreneurs, and self-starters say that the wee hours of night is their most productive time. To that I say, for the well rested and not so faint of heart, go for it, because I myself have a covetous memory of writing at 3 AM during a snow storm. I was the only one in the house, toasty warm while silent snowflakes banged on my window like a sparkling persona of words drifting through the air, waiting for me to reach for them and make something beautiful.

How I wanted to throw up the sash and catch each lovely, drifting pattern. Of course, I couldn't grasp at a snowflake, for in a fleeting moment, its crystalline beauty is a single teardrop, its clarity gone for good. Better to leave the window closed and the snow to lay unformed on the seal, and rather content myself to reach for the twinkling words of my muse; for they too, are fleeting and forever lost if not captured and put to use.

Breaking the Glass Ceiling -ugh- A Cliche

Worse yet are the words that lay dormant in the recesses of memories, unformed by disuse, but a constant reminder of their state of being. Like the window that kept the snow out, my fears kept the words in. Each thought clamoring, rattling, poking and prodding until I could take it no more. As the snow struck the window, I knew that was me.

Dressed for Success

I wrapped myself in a parka of literature, eons of pages and trillions of words woven around me, like a winter cocoon where I grow and mature. I drink in the warmth of other writer's treasures, like hot mulled cider to strengthen my endurance. My hands are gloved in warmest wool, to protect the magic of future expressions. I shuffle around in clunky pink snow boots, because this is not the ballet, not yet. I'm just finding my way. Upon my head, a warm knit toboggan with a round purple pom-pom for snowflakes to light, while warm woolly earmuffs block out all that's naught.

On that one winter night,

I stepped out with my muse,

as prepared as I could be,

with nothing to lose.

Into the Storm

The long and short

of finding your voice:

it's not really hidden,

it's just finding its course.

Words truly are like snowflakes, illusive and beautiful, twinkling and serene or abrupt and chilling, but there is no peace until they are formed into thoughts. This I know to be a fact.

Many writers face a multitude of blocks that prevent them from progressing. One difficulty arises when a writer has something to say but doesn't know how to find people to listen. Some writers struggle with harnessing their creativity and balancing time, not only with writing commitments but other life necessities. Some are afraid, discouraged or shamed. Some stand on the fringe or the edge of a cliff, not daring to leap, but rooted by strife. Every reason that delays a writer's achievement binds their words behind a glass window erected by fear. Their words beat silently against the glass. Unheard, they drift unformed into a mound that slowly melts away, lost forever.


© 2018 Cheryl OMalley

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