They haven’t been talking to me for more than a week now. No voices hovering overhead, no action taking place behind closed eyes. It’s almost as if I’ve wiped them out of my address book, ready to finish off the relationship altogether.

Alas, I just can’t do it. Somewhere, down deep, the ties that bind us will not be broken. At least until I hit page 300. Then we’ll talk.

There’s lots of talk about Writer’s Block but that’s not something I really believe in. Not getting in touch with your characters or not being able to get back into a story has always felt like some sort of personal failure--I’m just not concentrating enough. The story’s no good so don’t waste the time. My butt has not been in the chair.

This week, it’s the fear of all that failure that’s holding me captive, allowing my fingers to skip along these keys pretending to be happy about the useful, but perhaps not quite necessary words that appear on the screen.

When I was a young girl there was a giant slide in the neighborhood, a big hulking curve of metal upon which unsuspecting children hurled themselves down sitting on nothing but a burlap bag. I remember standing at the bottom watching my older brothers slowly climb the stairs to the top. My mother seemed calm, chatting, checking her watch. But I knew better. What fool sits on a burlap bag and falls down a long piece of metal!

And yet, there was such excitement in the air, anticipation painting the faces of every kid heading up to the top. And I wanted to be in that number. But I was terrified.

I don’t remember the details but I’m sure it took some cajoling and the hand of my brother to walk me up those stairs, burlap in hand, maybe a gentle final push at the top. And then....

Whoosh! The rush of air and adrenaline was amazing. The burlap bag was like a magic carpet and I was flying through suburban Ohio, commander of my ship. I couldn’t get back up those stairs fast enough and the day they tore down the giant slide I held a memorial service in my head, lamenting the freedom and energy and just feelin’ good around that slide.

I haven’t thought about that memory for quite a while. But now, I wonder whatever could I have been afraid of?

What do you do when the writing just won’t come?