Wed, May 23, 2018 05:55 AM
Wednesday, March 8, 2017 issue
2003-06-13 communities
Smile Awhile
Writer's block and other stumbling thoughts
Sara Hopson
Writer's block is a terribly debilitating condition that often strikes writers when they least expect it. Sometimes a white sheet of paper remains a white sheet of paper for hours, days, and even weeks without one smidgen of ink print applied to it. (It affects everyone from Stephen King to Clyde Pack.) And while I do not consider myself a "writer" on the same level with many others (some who also write for this paper), I do believe that my love of the written word has sometimes inspired me to write some newsworthy, readable items. However, this week won't be one of them. This week I have developed writer's block.

At one time I thought that I would write about Gwen Gullett Baldwin. This past week, when Gwen needed to make a call on her cell phone, she realized she was trying to dial out on her TV remote, which she had accidentally dropped into her purse instead.

Then I thought maybe I could write about my Aunt Barbara. A couple of weeks ago, I accompanied her to a dental appointment. As we left the office, she told me that the dentist had given her an astronomical price to construct a bridge for her lower teeth. "I don't know whether to just be a snaggle-tooth or move to West Virginia," she stated.

Of course, I always intend to write about a "friend" of mine who exceeds the speed limit to such a degree an oxygen mask should drop from the ceiling. Before I get into the car with her, I stand in front of the vehicle and motion with my arms that the exits are located at the sides as if I were an air attendant. And I always tell other passengers to be sure and put their trays in an upright position before take-offs and landings. I tell her that she should dispense peanuts and soft drinks half-way through a trip. I could write an entire story about it, but she fears retaliation from law enforcement.

Ronnie is also another endless source of amusement. I am constantly amazed at his knack of forgetting things. For instance, when Ronnie leaves the house to run an errand, he has to return at least once before he gets to the car. More often than not, he returns two or three times. It's like that commercial where the young boy is on his way to school, but he keeps forgetting things like his hat, then his books, then his coat. Ronnie starts to the post office and forgets to take the mail. He starts to the car and forgets his keys, or his sunglasses. The list is endless. Maybe he's just trying to get away from me as fast as he can. Who knows?

Or my son, J.R. You haven't heard about him in a long time. He's living and working in Lexington and I see him frequently and talk to him often. I talk to him more often when he's short on funds. On these occasions, the telephone conversations are lengthy (more than the compulsory three minutes) and heartfelt. I always know when the conversation is going to end with, "Hey, Mom. Would there be any way you could put some money in my account?"

Then, of course, there's Jen-eye, that "sweetest girl in the whole wide world" puppy of ours who is faster than a speeding bullet and can leap tall buildings in a single bound. She's a little surreal to me because she helped bring me out of one of the darkest periods anyone could ever experience, and all it took was a wagging tail.

Since I couldn't think of anything to write about this week, I was going to use an e-mail I received about why people over 35 should be dead; but I think I'll use that for next week just in case I still have writer's block.

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