Missing my words

I lost my words last week as I sat in front of my computer with a window open for a new blog post, watching helplessly as my words packed their tiny little suitcases, lecturing me as they flung scarves and other assorted outerwear haphazardly into bags.

“We told you we would stick around for the blog if you would only talk about art and creativity and happy things. Roller coasters. Beaches. That was the deal. We wanted a contract, but we can’t write it ourselves. We’re the words… we’re on the contract, but you are in charge of putting us there. So now you think you are going to write about your awful week and the horrific things you had to hear about? You chose to work in a profession where you would have to hear about that stuff. See how far you get without us. I knew we should have gone on strike until we saw a contract for the blog. HAPPY things only!”

With that, they stomped out, slamming the door in a soap-opera-style huff. Led by the polysyllabic, most descriptive words the rest honestly didn’t stand a chance. They filed out silently, some looking at me and mouthing “sorry” as they went meekly on their way.

I waited patiently for days, beginning to fear that they would not return. I wondered where they went and hoped that they were being care for. They came back slowly, a few at a time. The conjunctions and pronouns are always the first to return- they are a forgiving bunch. Nobody would make eye-contact and they kept their suitcases packed, just to torture me.

I promised to be nice, to read to them and introduce them to new friends… to paint and give them a break. So please accept my apologies for my silence, but I have been held verbally hostage for a week by my words and I have learned my lesson.