My Magic Room   I have a room with a life of its own. Some call it my office, I call it my space. It’s not the place where I hide or lay down and die, but one where I can be alone. Just myself and my thoughts, my books, two thirds of which lay in corners everywhere. A few cobwebs here and there, but who cares… I’m an artist. There’s only one bookcase, my desk, a table and lamp, and well… of course, my thoughts. And I wouldn’t dare forget Heavens forbid! My one and only true companion: My PC. I turn it on, the screen blinks. Sometimes I think it can see me. It dares me to touch its keys. Sometimes I swear it reads my thoughts!   “I do.” “You what?” “I do.” “Ha! you can read my… yeah…ha! ha!” “If you think it’s impossible, why do you talk back?” “I talk to myself; all writers do.” “You’re a writer?” “I thought you said…” “I could read your thoughts? Yes I did, but lately you’ve been out in outer space.” “I've got thoughts.” “Where?” “In my head.” “I dare you to write them down.” “Can’t.” “Why?” “Got writer’s block. I know there is a story somewhere, somewhere deep in the dark caves of my mind. Somehow a connection, a glimpse of something I can recall, but nothing… the well is dry.” “The well’s dry, my foot! You’re chicken!” “Excuse me?” “Don’t give me that dead turtle look. You heard me, you’re a coward!” “I’m not! There’s nothing else to say! Imagination’s gone, nothing left to write about. Not even a sorry poem, much less a sonnet, dear God, I don’t know how! This place… these walls are closing in, nothing moves my spirit any more.” “Hogwash!” “You’re so insolent! I suffer, an empty vessel, I am. A non-entity, not even a has-been; I never was. I am an impostor, a fraud, masquerading as a literary would be, but how can I, when I’ve never really existed.” “Oh sure you exist! You're just not doing it right.” “What are you talking about?” “Well, your wrote a book, didn’t you?” “Yeah, so what?” “It was a book about memories, wasn’t it?” “Yeah…” “You’ve got memories to write about.” “I don’t want to. I want to invent my plots.” “Think about all those wonderful resources, the colors, the textures, all at your fingertips.” “No, I don’t want to… I can’t…” “Oh yes… you can go back…” “Errr.. how far?” “All the way to those wonderful years, to the land you pretend to write about but only the surface, you’ve scratched.” “No please, not that far…” “Oh yes! you have years to tell about!” “I can’t! I’ve got writer’s block!” “You can go back all the way to….” “Don’t tell them! Please… don’t” “You’ve got tales to tell all the way back to November 19..." "Don't... please...." "1942!” “Now you’ve done it jerk! You’ve told them my age!” “Mad, are you?” “Yeahhhhhh!!!!!” “Hot he?” “You can say that again, imbecile!” “All shaken and stirred?” “GGGGrrrrrrrrrrrrrr You know I am!” “Well shake it baby, now sit down, and write!”   Carmen Ruggero .2003