The Dance

         He loved the way the keys felt under the pressure of his fingertips gently tapping away on them, opening up the pathway to his Muse, that beautiful mistress that loved to play hide and seek with him at times.  Today, She seemed to be hiding very well.

        He continued to let words flow out of his fingertips and onto the computer screen, fighting resistance one crappy word at a time while he searched for Her.  He thought back on the latest Stephen Pressfield blog post, “Write about what you don’t know.”  Well, that should be really fucking easy, because I don’t know anything!

         A small smile came to his face as a thought came to him: “write like I’m John Snow.”  You know nothing, John Snow.  And with that thought, he could start to feel Her come out of Her hiding place, he could feel Her course through his body, taking ahold of him, ready to play a different game.  No, not a game.  A dance.  A beautiful dance that took place between two worlds.

         His breathing slowed as he gently took Her hand and led her to the dancefloor.  He had invited Her, but She was going to lead.  This was Her dance and he was just Her partner, trying to keep up with Her grace and effortless flow.  Time seemed to stand still while they glided along the floor in perfect harmony with the music.  And, just like that, he was lost in the dance.

         They spun and twirled across the floor, never missing a step, looking into each other’s eyes, smiling, while their hearts filled with joy from the love flowing through them, guiding their every move.  How long had it been since he had danced like that?  Way too long, he thought.

         The dance seemed to go on forever, but Stan didn’t mind.  He always felt so alive when he was dancing with Her.  Not a care in the world, nothing to worry about, just the dance, back and forth across the floor. 

        And then, it was over.

        He stood up from his chair, cracked his knuckles, then reached his hands to the sky, stretching his whole body.  He sat back down and began reading what he had just written.

        A smirk started to form on his face as he continued reading.  What in the fuck is this piece of shit?  He couldn’t believe he had just written something so goddamn awful, especially when the dance had felt so effortless and good.

        He printed out his 500 crappy words for the day and began marking it up with a pen.  Scratching out one word, replacing another word with something better.  Adding a comma here, removing one there.

        Three out of ten, he thought to himself.  I only need to write something “good” three days out of ten and I’ll be considered an All-Star.  At least that’s what he liked to tell himself.

        He took another look at the page with all the markings on it, waded it up and threw it in the trash. 

        Tomorrow, he thought to himself.

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