A Frustrated Writer
Dark clouds overhang melodramatically in the Minnesotan skyline this afternoon. They tease at the possibility of an April shower tonight, but you could never be quite sure. It was Minnesota after all. I am sitting in a Caribou coffee shop in the midst of the Edina corporate jungle, looking out large open windows to a concrete view of traffic. My writer self is trying to get me to take this time and write something. Something. Anything. I was writing a story, but it is dying a slow, painful death like the future of my creative career. How does a writer find their story? According to the picture painted by the media, a writer without a story is the most depressingly hopeless creature in this ecosystem. They are doomed to be snuffed into a dark, dusty closet, desperately searching for inspiration through any crack of light they find. I feel like the writer, Alan Bennett, from the film, The...