As I take my typical brisk walk threw the park, I think about a story I want to begin writing. I do this frequently but never can remember to jot my idea down, and then it slips from my mind back into the oblivion that it came from. Today, the story plot builds and builds in my mind; I won't let this one slip. I pick up speed it’s been ages since I have ran competitively but it seems still to be second nature to me. Looking for paper, I need some thing to draft a short hand version of my brainstorm down on. There it is, a pink and black piece of paper dangling from the hydro pole. I aimlessly grab and rip the poser down, carelessly flipping it over and removing the blue ballpoint pen from my pocket I scribble down character names, setting points, and the theme. Folding and stuffing the pink piece of paper into the zipper pocket of my tired and wet wind breaker.

When I returned home I actually considered starting my story as all the ideas continue arousing in my mind, but my long black damp hair isn't going to wash itself, and neither are those dishes in the sink. After undressing and jumping in the shower the ideas, they keep flowing; I can't help but think that this stories my one way ticket to book number two. I try to extinguish my hopes; I don't want to exaggerate the unlikelihood of finding success again. It’s a far off train slowly, gradually drifting away, far away from me. Close to being completely out of view now.

I used to write all the time; sometimes I haul out my old scribblers full of story starters and try to continue on with one. Its hopeless, I'll never get back to what I was, at the top of my game.

A thought then crosses my mind like a faint glimpse of hope in a sky of black. I'm going to do it. I'm going to write this story. Without even finishing shaving my left leg I hop out of the shower and make a mad dash for my lap top, haphazardly forgetting that I was dripping wet.

After I finish drying off, I open an empty word document and stare, blankly. This has happened an immeasurable amount of times in the months sense my last book was published. Writers block, it will be the death of me indefinitely. I walk gloomily to my wind breaker and withdrawal the now damp and soggy piece of pink paper, the black ink smeared over it. Now for the first time I apprehend what the poster was for, something called the "Frye Festival". Maybe it is some sort of destiny, a writing festival. An ironic mist covers my eyes, dripping down my face.

I finish my shower, and dress in a casual outfit. Then head out to the address on the poser, still carrying the damp ink smeared poser in my hand, I feel a small tinkle of happiness. As if I've returned to my previous life, as if I'm still a writer.

I walk in mid Soirée, tons of famous author’s speckle the interior of the building. Who would have thought all these great writers would be in Moncton, and I didn't even know. It was great, uplifting for me, a failing writer. To hear the authors on stage talk about the many writer’s blocks they've had to overcome. I didn't ever need to stay for the entire festival. I left before the end to get a head start on my second book, which I was going to write, tonight.