If a writer Loses their voice.....Literally....Do They Still Have Something to Say?

So I survive my thyroid surgery with my voice barely intact and yet....I lost my writing voice. How does that happen? You would think with all of this free (Ha!)time on my hands, the creative juices would be flowing. You think wrong!

When I found out that I would not be allowed to work for a week, I thought that I would have so many chances to write and yet the week is almost up and I haven't put so much as three words together. It is sooooooo frustrating!!

Our writers meeting is in three days and I have nothing ready. Sure, I've been exhausted from the surgery, nauseous from the anesthetic, tired from all the nurses coming in and out of the room, and busy painting the house....but surely there is some free time in there to write a short story! I mean I have been combing the internet everyday looking for some writing prompt to inspire me and just when I think one will.....it doesn't.

I am beginning to think that my Muse does not respond well to anesthetic and pain pills.....maybe she is still asleep in room 931 bed A and doesn't realize that I am at home now. I wonder if they will return her when they find her? She is a lot like that annoying neighborhood child....Dennis....that only spends three minutes with you before you are planning your escape route. Is gnawing off your arm the ONLY option you have to escape? How much will you actually miss that arm? Get the picture?

Don't get me wrong, she is my Muse and I adore her but she can be sooooooo annoying! All of the "I don't agree with you." and the "It's my way or the highway!" and the "I am not going to talk to you again until you agree to do things my way!" conversations we always seem to have. I mean, I actually do have good ideas every now and then....of course she will say "Technically....their my ideas." Grrrrr she can be so annoying!

If truth be told I would be lost without her so I guess the only thing I can do is go looking for her because since she disappeared I've had nothing! And her last idea, "Can Zombies Fall in Love?" was brilliant!

Just do me a favor....don't tell her I said so......she is hard enough to live with as it is!

Sample of My Poetry

This is something I wrote right after someone my son knew committed suicide. This hit home for both of us because I also had a friend, several years ago, that committed suicide leaving behind three beautiful children


As Seen Through His Eyes

Soundly and snuggly he sleeps in his bed,
Not a care in the world, not a worry in his thoughts.
His dreams take him on wonderful and exciting adventures that
No waking hours can duplicate.

Signs of worry, about grades, games, and girls
--especially about girls…always about girls—
Not visible on his peaceful, angelic, sleeping face.

Days seem so long; worry waiting around every corner,
and anxiety stalking every movement from the dark shadows
of his mind.

Carefree moments are elusive and sporadic,
while confusion has no problem
mimicking his every move.

In his dreams, he can be the perfect student, athlete, or boyfriend.
He can say the perfect thing and be the perfect child.
Always striving to be perfect but,
In his eyes…….always falling short.

The light of day slowly creeps in through the blinds…waking him,
thrusting him into another day filled with uncertainties….
anxieties…..
confusion…..
doubt…..
and fears.

He hears the words of reassurance from his friends,
sees the expressions of love on his families face,
feels the warmth of his parents arms wrapped tight around him,
yet it is not enough to keep him safe…..it is never enough.

Doubt is strong but fear is stronger.

Slowly and methodically, doubt wiggles its way in…
between loves caring arms and his fragile sense of self worth.
It infects the goodness that cocoons his soul and slowly loosens loves hold….
Making room for fear to barge in.

Fear grabs hold with both hands and squeezes with all its might.
It suffocates every good thing in its path;
every loving moment,
every happy thought,
every caring touch.

It leaves behind only emptiness, and a sorrow so deep,
No amount of love can repair it.

The good things won’t go down without a fight.
Loving moments cling to his heart,
Happy thoughts swim in his memory,
Caring touches linger on his soul.

Fear marches on, squeezing tighter as it goes.

Eventually…….
Loving moments lose their grip and plunge to the earth in his tears,
Happy thoughts lose their grip and wander, disoriented, in a fog of confusion,
Caring touches lose their grip and cool; as fear’s cold breathe breathes down its neck.

Finally all that is left is just a hint of doubt; fanning fears flames.
Doubt that he is good enough, smart enough, loved enough….
Fear that he never will be.

The crossroad is now visible and his choices are clear.

One last chance to choose the right path
One last chance to choose the wrong path
And without asking for help…..he chooses.

Everyone left behind now lives with his choice,
Following a path they did not choose.