Write What You Know, She Said

Write what you know, she said.

So I toppled my castles and built a suburb in the ruins. I mourned as I pieced each bit of marvel into mundane, as each little brick house reached its height well under the ghostly shadows of fallen towers and parapets.

Write what you know, she said.

So I killed my intrepid space explorer and resurrected her as an underachieving high school science teacher. She lived on as a bitter, hollow shell of lost potential.

Write what you know, she said.

So I neatly wrapped up all the grand scheming, the plotting, the politics and intrigue and started again with petty disagreements and neighborhood scuffles.

Write what you know, she said.

So I retired my spies, I called back my sailors, I pulled back my explorers and destroyed my bases. I started again with mailmen and real estate agents, with offices and construction sites, and despaired when I couldn't build a thing.

Write what you know, she said.

So I abandoned the future and forgot the past. I kept only with right here, and right now, never wondering of consequences or causes.

But write what you know, she said.

So I left everything behind and I stared at my paper. And I never wrote another word.