I read another good book yesterday. Couldn't put it down until the very end. Loved the story, hated the story-teller.

Why?

She is a true writer, and with each page I read, I realized again and again I will never be one.

Oh sure, I know the technical aspects of good writing... I'm an editor, for heaven's sake! I know when a comma is misplaced or needed instead of a semi-colon. I know about subjunctive mood and all the other tenses and quirks of our wonderful language.

I just can't tell a story with the rich use of those rules and words I love. I'm like Salieri, who yearned to compose great music but couldn't and who despised Mozart because he could.

After my two novels were published, I tried over and over to write another. I have several files on my computer that are first pages or parts of first chapters of stories I'd love to tell. The words just don't come and the ideas evaporate into nothingness, leaving me wishing I could have figured out how to finish my tales.

So I edit and I blog and I write first lines and first chapters. Perhaps someday, my Muse will open her eyes, stretch her long, made-for-typing fingers and just write... a real book, a real novel, something someone somewhere will want to read.

I can dream, can't I?