Seven days since the rain began, along with my frustration to finish my first novel Lèvres d'un enfant romantique.  Sitting at my writer’s block I punched the metallic keys, but only to be unsatisfied with the way the letters on the paper looked together. It irritated me that I wrote over 500 pages of articulate descriptions that illustrated a beautiful romance and now I was depleted of ideas. I ignored the thought of creating an outline that would keep me on task and flowing like a river. Mid sentence of what probably would of been garbage anyway, a knock rang from my workshop’s door. In a gracious manner I managed to open the door to see a beautiful woman waiting for my arrival. 
    “Hello Jack, how are things going today?” said Susan.
    “Well it has been slow, but come inside before you are drenched,” I said as I let her into the cozy shack that was my workshop. 
     “Why has it been so slow? Are you letting the rain bother you?” 
     “No, it’s not the rain. It’s the past. I’ve been thinking so much about how I once called Paris home and the people I left there when I sailed the great blue sea to Ellis Island. Do you remember the love you lost because of your voyage?” 
    “Yes, there once was a time when I could remember vividly, but I forgot about them shortly after we met each other. Now, my memories are filled with the great moments we have shared the past 20 years. I understand how you feel though because I once too sat beneath a cloud of memories. It’s just a temporary burden that will pass with time, but it’s something you have to handle alone.  I’ll leave you to concentrate,” she said and then walked towards the door.
    I couldn’t find anything to say before she left. Even though I wanted her to stay and comfort me, I knew she spoke the truth. There wasn’t anything she could do or say to help because it was my battle to fight. It scared me to think about having to do it alone because Susan tagged along with everything I did.
    After 15 minutes of deep thought, I returned to my desk in anticipation to ignore my
 dilemma, but the issue was already at my desk waiting. My unfinished sentenced read: At the
island Sam cried as he watched... I glanced out the window at the dew covered grass sparkling in the sunshine and realized the way my novel was supposed to end. It wasn’t a novel about me directly, but my own experience, which I had neglected for 25 years, was the ending I was trying to imagine; The ending at
  Ellis Island to the love I shared with Adrienne
Moliére.

 


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