I sit there, gaping at the blank page …

… and I can’t write a damn word.

I use every trick in the book to get the juices flowing. I try starting in the middle of the chapter. That doesn’t work. I try stream of consciousness writing. Nothing gets me in the groove.

Eventually, I try to force it. For an hour, I clunk along like a car on square wheels. After another hour, I stop to read what I’ve written … What is this garbage? It’s all over the place. I kept mistakenly calling one of the main characters ‘Rebecca’, even though her name is Kristen. The prose is disjointed and confusing. It’s five pages of absolute drivel.

I curse and roll my neck, releasing a series of loud cracks. I really needed that sleep I never got last night. I get up, walk around, jump up and down, shake out my hands, sit back down, and try again. After another half an hour, I stop, go over what I’ve written … and drop the notebook on the desk.

“Okay. I guess it’s not happening today.”

I push myself away from the desk. I hate giving up like this, but I’ve got to take it easy on myself. It’s been months since I’ve tried to write. Of course, I’m rusty. These are new surroundings, a new book, and no Nicole. I’ll try again tomorrow.

This means that my day has now become regrettably open. If I’m not going to write, the only way to feel better is to take advantage of this beautiful morning.

*

Accompanied by my cup of coffee, I step barefoot off the deck onto the cool grass and walk down to the pier.

The wooden slats have been warmed by the sun. The surface of the pond is a sheet of murky glass.

I can’t have many more days like this. I need to crank out the book. No one knows that more than me, but for now, I’m going to stand here and sip my coffee.

As I stare out at the lake, standing at the end of the pier, my hand distractedly reaches inside the neck of my shirt and pulls out Nicole’s ring.

This day should have been hers. It was taken from her. It was taken from us. At the funeral, one of her friend’s husbands said that her death was part of God’s plan. If Caitlyn hadn’t been there, I would have hit him. Instead, I told him, ‘Well then, I guess God’s an asshole.’ Thankfully, Caitlyn didn’t hear that. Before Nicole’s death, I believed that there was a God, some sort of benevolent hand, watching over the world, guiding things, intervening with small miracles here and there but afterwards? No way. There’s no justification for what happened. None.