Gene Hull

The Sun God is a Ham Gene Hull

Hands curved, fingers poised at the keyboard, like a pianist about to concertize, I am ready to write. Waiting the conductor's cue, I hold in readiness position - a hovering hawk. Which key will be struck first? What little click will loft the fine sentences the world has never seen? Sentences that validate the promise of a writer? Patience - a sign will appear. I stare at the screen it's still an unblemished white. I accept the roll I must play - blank-screen spoiler, virginal defiler. I stretch out fingers, flex, yawn, rub palms together, wait for the surge, the catalytic urge that is soon to come.