|image from icanread|
He sits and stares into space, pencil in hand. I can see a few words on the paper but not the story he excitedly told me he would write; the scenes he had envisioned while he was sick. Just a few words.
I rack my brain; what happened from our writing conference to now? He couldn't wait to leave me to write? What roadblock did he face? I finally get it, that roadblock, the reason his pencil is hovering in mid air tentatively waiting? Me. Me and my great advice. Me and my how to's, should have's, and don't forget about this.
So I shout to him; "Hey, did I get you stuck?" He sheepishly grins, "Uhum." "Oh man, I am sorry..." I answer. (No really, for some reason I have the vocabulary of a 5th grader today). I think for a second and then I say, "Well, don't listen to me. Go back to what you were doing and write your story. Not mine." His gets that smile back, turns his back and finally starts to write.
Sometimes even our best intentions, our well thought out writing conferencing are unnecessary at best and downright creativity killing at worst. I am glad I learned that today.