the hell to write, she said.
You say, just write, but what
does that mean?

Grab an image out of your head
and put it on the page? OK.
A dog. Now what?

What do you mean, details?
I dunno—just a dog. No,
not a specific dog. Just a…

well, it could be a shaggy
black and white dog. Like
Milo. He was my sister’s dog.

I didn’t get to have a dog,
but my sister did after she
dragged this ragamuffin

she found on the way home
from school, and for some
reason my mother let her

keep it. You want me to write
about Milo? Only if I want to?
Why would I want to?

That dog broke our hearts
when he died. How’d he die?
He ran out in front of a car.

You don’t want to hear that.
I don’t want to write that.
What do you mean, that’s

where the energy is? Yeah,
I heard you—you might laugh
or cry, or both, but you won’t

die. I might, you know.
But dammit, there he is on
the page, leaping up to lick

me when I came in the door,
sleeping on the floor next to
my bed instead of my sister’s,

sometimes the only one in
that house who loved me.
You want that? Well, here

you go. And send that
box of tissues this way,
will ya?

•••

For all writers who face the blank page or screen every time… waiting for something to arrive.