Letters in Time by Reiss Susan (i love reading books .txt) 📕

myself I couldn't do anything until I got out of the hospital, then I had to wait until I was released from the rehab facility. Now, I was carrying around not just a bum leg, but guilt. Sitting here in Uncle Jack’s Cottage staring out the window at the beautiful landscape was a waste of time. It helped that I’d declared I wanted to write a children’s book. The only problem was I didn’t know quite how to go about it. And, of course, I needed a story.

Thankful that I had a piece of origami paper, I prepared to fold. This time I knew which shape I needed: A Llama. It was not an animal associated with Japan but had become a symbol of persistence in a difficult situation and hard work. Examining my little llama, I realized I needed more practice. It had a lot in common with my project. If I was going to publish a book, I was going to have to study and get to work.

During this lecture to myself, I heard the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. It didn't sound like TJ's truck. I craned my neck to see a car pulling up. I scrambled to stand up as best I could when I recognized the woman getting out of the car. What perfect timing. It was Maureen, the woman in the writing group, who had offered to help.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.”

—Louis L’Amour

When the doorbell rang, I called out. "I'm coming!" hoping she'd hear me. I finally made it to the front door and yanked it open as she was getting into her car.

“Hello!  I’m here!” I called out, waving madly.

“I didn’t think anyone was home,” she said as she closed her car door and made her way back to the front steps. “I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t wait for you to call me, that I came by unannounced.”

We settled in the living room. "I'm so glad you're here. I have a suspicion you might be able to help me."

She smiled.  “I suspect I may be able to do that.”

I glanced down and saw my mug half full of coffee and realized with a start that I wasn't a good hostess. "I'm so sorry. I should offer you something to drink."

She laughed. “You mean you’re going to make fresh coffee and bake some cookies?” Her face fell when she saw the walker. “Weren’t you using a cane last night?”

I nodded.  “Yes, my arrogant self was using a cane last night. When I got home, reality reminded me that I wasn’t ready. Please don’t ask for details. They’re ugly.”

She stood up. “What if I find the kitchen and see if there is any coffee left? One cup for me and a refill for you?”

“That would be terrific.” Maureen made everything feel calm and natural.

It wasn’t long before she returned and we settled in for a chat. Only, I had no idea what to say. It turned out I was worrying for nothing.

She folded her hands in her lap, her fingertips were elegantly manicured. The only telltale signs of age were little wrinkles at her wrists and crinkly lines at the corners of her blue eyes which sparkled with mischief.

“I am here today at the behest of your new writers group,” she began formally. “The members have decided that you need help fighting your writer’s block.”

“My what? I don’t have writer’s block. I haven’t even started writing yet so how could I have writer’s block.” I was spouting a weak position. “Forgive me, but who do these women think they are? Have any of them published, I mean with a real publishing house? I don’t think so.” I knew my reaction was extreme, but I couldn’t stop. “Who do they think they are, talking about me behind my back? They’re nothing but a group of old biddies who have nothing else to do than sit around, drink wine, and criticize other people. If they spent half as much time—"

Maureen held up her hands for me to stop. And when I did, she spoke in a soft voice. "I'm not going to waste time trying to change your mind. They do have a point, though a small one," she added quickly when she saw that I was about to argue with her. "I have more background than they do. I can tell that you are dealing with a bit of a block."

In deference to her polite attitude, I chose to drop the rant and speak in a civil tone.  “Well, if I have writer’s block, I’ll fight my way through it, the same way I fought my way through things at the hospital and in rehab. After what I’ve been through, nothing is going to keep me down.”

Maureen sat quietly and listened. "That's fine. I understand you've faced some difficult challenges recently. Probably, it was the sheer force of will that has gotten you to this point."

I relaxed and leaned back against the cushion. I felt confident I knew myself pretty well. That’s why her next words took me by surprise.

"But you might try a different tack with writing. Why should you use your energy fighting through a block, when all you need to do is go around it and keep working?" She shrugged. "It's so much easier that way."

My jaw dropped. “You never hear of people going around writer’s block. You always hear how they fight it valiantly or drown in a bottle of scotch.”

Maureen laughed as she folded her hands in her