Voice From The Past

There are days when that blinking cursor in the corner of my screen is more than just a challenge to me. It is a curse all its own. There are plenty of things to write about. My feelings about the past, the present, and most certainly the future. I write many of these entries ahead of their actual publication. I keep a few on ice in case of some catastrophic event keeps me from reaching a keyboard and/or connection to Al Gore's Internet when it comes time to spread the daily word.
That's the problem: Daily. As much as I live and breathe to be a model of consistency, I still feel the aggravation of coming up empty from time to time. Usually a quick skim through the morning's news gives me a scent or a flavor that I can follow. Sometimes I will wake up from a dream that will set me on a path to finding the truth for that day's reportage. But I wonder sometimes if I won't eventually use up all the ideas forty-two hundred missives to my constant readers later. I know that I am guilty of hitting the "greatest hits" button on occasion. I know that my obsession with Bruce Springsteen and the Denver Broncos have been explored ad nauseam for many. I have tried to exercise my fiction muscle on a couple of occasions, but the response has been less than rousing.
As I sit here, in front of the screen, watching the lines stack up about how I have nothing to write about, there is an election brewing. I don't know who will win. I know that my visceral reaction currently is to throw the metaphorical covers over my head and pretend that everything will be alright. This is partly because, in my heart, I believe this to be true. A Donald Trump presidency would be an onerous struggle for our country and it would mean worse things for people I have never met, but I have faith in our process and the system of checks and balances we have in place will keep us from falling into a pit of fire and brimstone.
I lived through two terms of (mostly) Nixon.
If Hillary wins, she will be forced to contend with all the ill will generated after a two-year marathon of a campaign that left very few stones unturned. The relief of having an answer, one way or another, will not make the past two years go away. As I sit here, forty-eight hours before the envelope will be opened, I wish I had something else to write about.