No longer do I sit terrified at the blank page. For most of my life, it had been my biggest fear. I always imagine myself sitting at a blank screen, with no words, certain the writer’s block would be my ultimate demise.

Then one day… an epiphany!

Now the beginning of a new work has morphed into a breathless anticipation of my opulent, dazzling potential. It is an ocean of unrealized dreams. From its depths, talent eagerly awaits to break the surface of my consciousness, entering a perfect world of becoming.

The blank page is a coming out party for my brilliance. A cotillion for one amazed with their own wit. I anxiously dive right in, masterfully typing my latest opus.

My hands tremble at the keyboard, agitated at the wonderful opportunity to show the world who I really am. A seeker of universal truths, just waiting to bleed out on the printed page. Finally, I am ready for my close-up.

I am so full of shit. That has always been my problem. Always.

I look down at the keyboard and sigh. “Anticipation of dazzling potential?” Really? REALLY?

My cat watches from her perch on a leather-clad stool. It is her favorite place in the room. I think it is because she can look me straight in the eye, judging me. The stool sits at an opposite end of our shared second-floor studio, just in front of a half-finished canvas.

Margaret’s new abstract.

Now that is art.

The canvas is full of deep greens, with a touch of tans and yellow. Waves of fluid brushstrokes.  Her specialty is waterscapes. They are best sellers in her portfolio, pieces that appear it is as if you are staring into a rippling sea. This year, she is using a new color, mustard.  Earth tones are popular this season, she reasoned. Margaret was always good at that—reasoning. Rare for an artist.

Earlier, I had suggested she is using mustard because of the oil spill. At the time, oil was vomiting into the Gulf of Mexico. For months, it dominated the news. One could see nothing but deep brown gobs of goo washing up on our pristine shores. At least that is what local TV stations spun it, usually accompanied with close ups of reddish brown masses and fouled sea birds.

With extreme camera angles used on the news, chunks of oil loomed huge. Two stories high, at least. Like the Steve McQueen movie The Blob. I imagined it squeezing through the doors of a movie house, ready to eat horny teens.

I had actually seen one of those oily splotches on the shore; it was the size of a dime.

Margaret laughed at my suggestion, simply because it wasn’t funny. I never mind when she laughs at me. Her smile is worth it. I try to make her laugh as much as I can, just to see that near-perfect smile.

Mimi, our year-old yellow tabby, blissfully stares at me. My frustration is her entertainment. I know she lives to mock me. Look at those cold eyes. Her expression can only be described as nonplussed.

“Well… fuck you too,” I mutter.

Maybe I shouldn’t feed her. Show her who the boss is. Ha! That’ll teach her.

Yeah, right.

I get up to make my way downstairs. Mimi, knowing it is her time for breakfast, dutifully runs ahead.

“How the hell do you know what time it is?” I say after her.

Mimi turns to look at me. To make sure I did not get lost going to the kitchen.

Just feed me, fucker, I can almost hear her say. She is a cold bitch. Very endearing.

I love my cat.