The ink that flows freely from a writer’s pen stalled
that day. Every word seemed wrong and out of place and each one felt like a
lead weight dragging down on my heart. The salutation was too formal but a
familiar cheery greeting would have been inappropriate.
This letter had to be clear and concise. No pretty
waffling decorating the page and clouding the issue. Slowly behind me the pile
of screwed up balls of paper grew, each one evidential of my inability to
communicate simple facts.
The silver fountain pen drank heavy on another intake of
viscous black ink and I started the process again. Once again fighting the urge
to give up my pen struggled to write.
Later my hand shook as I put the envelope in the red box
outside the Post Office before I drifted home to the safety behind the closet
door.
Job done!
© JG Farmer 2013
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