Cramp Cure

Cramp Cure

I closed my computer, shut off the light. Then I laid down on the floor and cried. Tears of relief and joy.

Finally! A cure for that common problem. ‘What do I write for the Writer’s Cramp?’ A daily problem I’d faced for over twenty years finally has a cure.

Do I tell everyone on writing.com or keep this a secret? Well, in the interest of full disclosure, and knowing that all cures don’t work for all people, here goes:

Every day when Sophy or one of her minions posts The Writer’s Cramp prompt for the next day, I sit in my magic chair. I chant this mantra:

Attitude is Gratitude
All is fine and dandy
Don’t mistake this platitude
For sweets and such and candy

If you put your thinking cap on
While chanting this little ditty
When your inspiration’s gone
You’re gonna feel real shitty!

Once that is done, I sit and wait for the writing fairy, mine is called George, to appear. When George appears with the story, I hurriedly write it before the story disappears into the ether.

“George, give me an idea. I’ve just chanted that poem you gave me. Pretty stupid one, by the way.”

George appears. He’s sort of the kind of fairy I guess I deserve. He’s short, a little overweight, has brown hair and shiny yellow eyes. How he flies on those tattered wings with all that weight is a defiance of physics and gravity. Reminds me of those bras for women that are size … But I digress.

Earlier today George perched on my laptop. Is he hungover?

“George? Are you okay? You look a little ugly today.”

“Whatever. Never you mind. You don’t look so hot yourself. Look in the mirror, girl. Hair, makeup, clothes. Have you brushed your teeth yet? Mercy. What’s your problem?”

“I have to write about how to solve the twenty-year problem of the Writer’s Cramp prompts. They appear every day, right on time. Whenever I enter, I usually don’t win. I want to win every time. What’s the solution?”

George closed his eyes, promptly falls off my laptop. I pick him up by his wings, slap his face.

“Hey! I don’t go around slapping people. Knock it off. So, the problem is you want to be perfect. No one is perfect.” George walked on my keyboard. A story appeared.

We sat there for awhile. Antique clocks ticked off the minutes. When the chimes ring 6 PM, George spoke.

“So, am I off the hook here? I’ve got to get back to Andre at the bar. That monkey has a spell on me, I swear. Something about those banana daiquiris.”

I read the story, then reread it. Huh.

“So, this is the cure for the Writer’s Cramp?”

“Read it and weep. The judges will.” George flew off into space, then disappeared from my office.

So I as I lay on the floor thinking of this, about how amazing that George can just magically make a story appear. And it is a good one. Sending it now.


W/C 512