The school building was gray. It sat on the side of a hill near houses built for miners. There was one room, four grades, and a merry-go-round. A pigtailed child wandered up the hill toward the building. She was five. When she entered the classroom, she smelled chalk and books. She loved the idea of education.

On the day she graduated from college, the smell of that classroom and the thrill of the merry-go-round ride remained the memory to which she clung.

She began teaching. Education was so important and she never quit loving the smell of chalk and books.

"Don't do this to me," said George, on his knees, hands clasped together and beads of sweat dotting his face like a desperate man in confession. I looked around the park and saw people staring. I pulled in a big breath and let it out in a slow sigh.

"George, it's over."

"Fine!" he yelled and stormed away.

I watched him go until I couldn't see him anymore. I turned and walked the other way. I fought the urge to cry until finally it poured out of me.

Six months is a long time for ten-dollar bet.

Phillipa and I stared at the box of chocolates sitting in the Xi’an shop.

“Maybe we could split it?” she suggested, looking earnest.

Andrew shifted back and forth. “Maybe if you girls get chocolate, I’ll buy some smokes?”

The lovebirds were in China celebrating their anniversary. And still, after five years together, each felt guilty about the bad habit which annoyed the other. They both looked at me, eyes hopeful.

The train ride to Beijing would be long, noisy and dirty.

“OK,” I agreed to the chocolates.

Andrew and Phillipa exhaled a huge sigh of relief.

"We love you. Be sure to write," his Mom called after him as he left his family behind at security.

Looking out the window at the gate, he felt he might not be ready for this after all. Never before had the jet on the tarmac seemed so big. Even the first plane he'd flown on as a 3rd Grader some 15 years ago didn't seem so imposing.

"Last call for boarding Flight 2807 to Dublin" crackled the voice on the intercom.

He glanced at his ticket -Seat 23C- grabbed his backpack and headed towards the gate.

Is there a choice. As with all the things that we do, writing takes courage. Writers don't choose to write nor do we like to do it a great deal of the time. But there are things that need to be said...to be discussed...to be mulled.

When we take the time and the thought to write, hopefully someone takes the time to read. I often wonder which is important. Is it the writing or is it the reading that makes the difference.

In the end I know that it is neither.. it is the discussions that follows.

All of the sweat that dripped from body, all the groans and aches and pains have lead to this. All the practice, all the time, and all the defeats that have been endured have lead to this.

Day in and out I try to be better. I try to do one more than the next guy and if finally lead to this. Quitting is not an option now. Mediocrity is not an option. Perfection of excellence is the only option.

I will be victorious.

My motivation is simple, do not ever let yourself down.

What is the point? Is it fluid and expressive or rigid, straightforward? Will it be durable but boring, or will it have to be handled gently with reverence befitting something so fragile, and unpredictable?
All things in nature are at some time in balance, neither leaning toward a beginning nor an end. Their inertia sleeping, waiting for any gentile force to set them in motion. They welcome your direction, not fighting your urging, not rushing forward with slapdash abandon. They mold themselves to your purpose. I want a pen that removes the walls between substance and flesh.

Fingers poised above the board, waiting to strike down on the lettered keys. But where to start? Her mind reeled, full of swirling, colourful ideas, but the words wouldn’t come; she couldn’t force them out of her head and onto the blank, white screen before her eyes, seeming to challenge and jeer at her, to whisper “You can’t do it.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she flexed her fingers again, stretching them, getting the blood flowing.

All she needed was a start, something to get her going. It was only one hundred words – how difficult could it be?

Too difficult.

A chair. A desk. A computer screen and keyboard, waiting, waiting.

What does it take? When will he show his true face? Ever? Not today. He sits, glumly, lamenting lost enthusiasms. Lost youth. The clock ticks.

Tomorrow, he nods. Tomorrow he will screw up his courage and begin. Today, there are vegetables to buy, a meal to plan. Children to give that false courage, that lying face. But yes, tomorrow, he will begin.

How hard can it be? After all, he's read so many.

The bells toll five. He rises, turns to leave. Yes, tomorrow he will begin.