Sitting lazily on the couch, reading a book or watching as scenes from a movie unfold on the screen, I believe I can write. I begin to sense the stories in me, hear their voice, know they are ready. In that moment on the couch, I believe all I have to do is get the words out, line the sentences one after the other and the story will tell itself. As soon as the movie is over, I am ready as I sit in front of the blank page. I’m going to write about Cologne. I’m going to record the first year of this radical move we have made at fifty seven years of age, a decision that sometimes makes me think we may not be so old just yet.
We’ve been here for forty days now. A new city, a new culture, everything is new. So much to observe, to write, there must be hundreds of story triggers every single day. And yet my fingers hover in anticipation over the keyboard, unable to find a way in. My mind rushes from one possibility to the other finally becoming exhausted.
Should I begin writing about the two young women who sit on the roof of the building across the street; the way they make me yearn for deep conversations only to be had with women…
