The Painting on the Wall

I had an old painting on my wall. My grandmother left it to me, not in her will, but with a piece of paper taped to the back with my name on it. It wasn't worth money or anything. I cherished it because it reminded me of her. She left it to me because I loved it.

I had it on the opposite wall from my desk, so I could look at it when I was stuck on a paragraph, sentence, or couldn't find a particular word good enough to convey the thought in my head. During those times, I would stare at that painting.

It started happening more and more. I was on my fifth book and the writing was not coming as easy as it used to. I found myself staring into that scene for longer periods of time, imagining the sound of the stream, or the rustling of the birch leaves.

One day, as the sun was beginning to set, I came back to myself and looked at the clock. It had been hours sitting there staring. I rubbed my eyes, and when I looked at the painting again, I could've sworn it moved. Just a little leaf mind you, enough to startle me though. I laughed it off as being tired.

I left my office, started a fire, poured a glass of wine, and sat in my comfy chair, gazing into the flames. At first I was thinking about my book, how I really had no idea where it was going. Then my mind drifted to the painting.

I immediately relaxed. My eyes closed. Slowly, meditatively, I imagined walking by the stream. I could almost hear birds chirping in the branches of the trees that lined it.

Sleep came easy that night.

The next morning, after a run, I went into my office, coffee in hand, determined to get one chapter done. Even if it killed me. I thought about putting a sheet over the painting so my attention would stay on the task at hand instead of being drawn into the idyllic scene.

I smiled at how silly that sounded. I started typing. Things were going really well, keys were being tapped, words were appearing on the screen, words that if not brilliant, were at least smart and funny. I was satisfied. One chapter done. I closed my computer, and took a moment to look at the painting.

Was the stream...moving? And, just for a quick second, I thought I heard the water flowing, bubbling? I thought I must be mad, so I got up and left the room. I made dinner, took a bath, and went to bed.

In the morning, I went right into my office, and stood in front of the painting. All night I had dreamt of it, weird dreams of talking animals, and trees that liked jazz. I stared hard into the scene, taking note of the paintstrokes, the ridges, the colors, daring it to move.

Then, off in one corner, a shadow of something darting up a tree caught my eye. I whipped my head toward it, and saw there was a squirrel, sitting there on the lowest branch. Had that squirrel been there this whole time? Wouldn't I have noticed before now? I have loved this painting since I was a child, I couldn't imagine missing a detail like that.

I slowly backed away, and shut the door behind me. I took my computer out to the deck to write that day. I wrote more words that day than I had in weeks. The painting did not even cross my mind once.

That night, I was awake in my dreams. I could feel each step as I walked through the woods, the coolness of the dirt and grass beneath my feet. I could smell the earth, and the leaves on the trees as they blew gently in the breeze. Nearby the stream was accompanied by the melody of the birds singing.

I awoke at dawn, sitting on the floor in my office, in front of the painting. My feet were dirty, and there were leaves around me.

I jumped up, and ran out of my office. I shut and locked the door behind me. This was too much. I went upstairs, showered, got dressed, then left. A day out was just what was needed.

When I got home that evening, I was feeling inspired. I unlocked my office, sat down to write. Half the night went by while I tapped those keys, getting words out I never knew were in me. It was done. I hit print.

I was spent. I took the painting down, and leaned it against the wall. I sat in front of it, crosslegged. I could hear the stream bubbling...

Her publisher, having heard nothing from her in weeks, took a drive to the cabin where she wrote. When she got there, she found no trace of her author, her friend. What she did find, still sitting in the printer, was a completed manuscript. She looked down at the painting that was leaning up against the wall. Hmmm, she thought, did that always have footprints next to the stream?