Once upon a time, a little girl proudly showed her mother a story she had written. The story the childish and morbidly brutal murder of a Thanksgiving turkey, and it was on that day that the little girl knew she wanted to be a writer.

Years later, that little girl, now grown up, sat on her laptop, mourning her lost inspiration. So many stories, started and never finished. So many poems, a deep chasm reaching into her soul. So many ideas, wasted, squandered, unwritten. The words echoed 'round and 'round in her skull, begging for release, tormenting her with their cries.

That little girl is me, reader. Yes, I once wrote a story about a Thanksgiving turkey being murdered and eaten. I've also written a story in which a hungry wolf fights, and then devours Barney the Dinosaur. My childhood stories were rife with violence, for reasons even I don't know. But now, I look back on those stories and wonder what happened. At least then I could get my ideas out. I could form the stories with my words, and feel the satisfaction of a world becoming more and more real with each word I wrote or typed. Now, all I feel is an endless swamp of words in my head, and my inspiration miring down in them...

I suppose every writer feels this way sometimes. I know I've felt this way many times before. I'll just have to wait until my inspiration returns.

- Aimee