She didn’t write.

“The secret,” said all the authors she admired, “is to write every day, even if it’s not good. Write and you will become a writer.” She didn’t write. She bought all the books on writing. Plot, characterization, style. There was a book for every possible facet of writing. She placed the books in a precariously towering pillar at her bedside. She became tired of looking at the dusty monolith and banished it into a chest.

“Read,” said the authors. “Read good books.” She was too distracted to read, and when she did it was graphic novels or fan fiction full of plot holes, bad grammar, and definitely spelled as defiantly.

“I don’t have anything to write about”, she thought as she watched life going on around her. Mockingbirds and bluebirds fought over bugs and nesting territory. A plague o’frogs took over the pasture. Five chickens escaped the pen and formed a gang, ravaging the leaves of the green bean vine, terrorizing package delivery workers, and smoking funny cigarettes behind the barn. Her mother didn’t always know her. Her mother died. She listened as her dad said he wanted to go be with her mother in Heaven. Then there was retirement. Neighbors came and went. Buzzards circled overhead. Possums stole eggs. Her German Shepherd’s muzzle went from black to white. She tried to involve herself in crafty pursuits but couldn’t make herself work any more. A wise friend said, “I thought you were writing a book.” Grandbabies went from sweet toddlers to sassy know-it-alls. She looked out the windows, saw nothing, and felt numb.

There was nothing to write about.