I sat in front of my computer and stared at the blinking cursor. That little black line seemed to mock me on a regular basis as of late. I couldn’t conjure up any words let alone string them together to form sentences. I had never believed writer’s block was a real thing. Stories flowed easily for me. I was at my happiest when I was writing. Ever since my mom died, I had a serious case of writer’s block.

I haven’t always been a writer. Well, I should say not professionally. I have always loved to write. Growing up I went through library books quicker than my school librarian could recommend them. English class was always my favorite and I tackled writing assignments like my math loving friends tackled Algebra equations. I never did get the hype about solving for that mysterious X.

All through high school, I took pride in being enrolled in Honors English classes. The summer before Senior Year of high school my family moved from New Jersey to Florida. Some might say it was a natural migration for my Cuban family, but the move had more to do with some health issues my dad was having at the time. Upon enrolling in school, I was automatically placed in a regular English class. I was desperate to blend in at this new school. It was three times the size of my old high school. I didn’t speak up. After my second writing assignment, the teacher kept me after class. She suggested I might be better off in an Honors English class. However, at this point my parents would have to meet with that teacher to approve the transfer.

My parents scheduled a morning appointment before work and the three of us were led to an empty conference room where we sat and waited for Mr. G. He entered the room in a huff, slammed some papers on the table, and took a seat across the table from us. My dad extended his hand and introduced himself. No response. No eye contact. He just shuffled his papers. I was instantly full of regret for having set this all in motion. My parents went on to explain why they had requested the meeting. Mentioned I had taken Honors English classes all three years at my last school. How I loved English class and wanted to continue in an Honors class.

Mr. G finally looked up at my parents and said, “Clearly English isn’t your first language and while I can see why you would like nothing more than for your daughter to keep that streak going, I don’t think she’s cut out for my class.” My dad took a deep breath and simply said, “Are you saying you will not allow my daughter to take your class? I assure you she most definitely has what it takes.” I was transferred to Mr. G’s class the following day. However, that man made my life a living hell. He never gave me a grade higher than a C on any assignment. I approached him each time and asked for feedback. He never gave any. One day, he finally said, “You’re just not a good writer. There’s no hope for you.”

That day a seed of doubt was planted in me that took me years to overcome. It wasn’t until many years later after a career in Public Relations, married with young kids, and living in Puerto Rico that I truly found my passion for writing again. Once more, my biggest supporter was my mom. She literally signed off all comments and messages as “your number one fan.” She would encourage me to submit my stories to inspirational or spiritual publications. She said my stories resonated with people on an emotional level. She was my mom though. Wasn’t she supposed to say those things? I brushed her off time and time again.

My mom died in 2021. For five months after she passed away, I couldn’t write a single word. That blinking cursor mocked me every time. Perhaps it was the thought of writing something that she wouldn’t read. It hurt too much to think I wouldn’t see a commenter signing off, “your number one fan.” One day, I received an email from a magazine editor. “Hi. I’m with Guideposts Magazine. We would like to publish your story in our August issue. Can we schedule a time to discuss?”

My immediate thought was “this is a scam.” I hadn’t submitted any stories let alone written anything in months. Probably some foreign prince about to ask me to send him a check. I closed the email without responding to it. The next day, I couldn’t get the email out of my head although I still couldn’t recall submitting a story. Maybe I should schedule the call, hear what the editor had to say. What did I have to lose?

“Your story about selling your house at your garage sale is perfect for an upcoming issue. Are you interested in publishing it?”

 I could recall the story vividly, but it had been years since I had written it. I certainly didn’t remember submitting it.

“May I ask how you came across my story?” I didn’t want to let on that I didn’t remember sending it to them.

There was a moment of silence before he replied. “Actually, I just came across it even though you submitted it in 2016.”

2016! My mind was spinning. I could hear mom’s voice, “Submit to a spiritual publication. Your stories resonate with people on a deeper level.” 2016. The one and only time I had submitted a story to Guideposts Magazine.

“Wow. That’s quite the lengthy approval process you have.” I blurted out before I could catch myself. Thankfully, the editor laughed at that.

“I would love to have my story published.”

These days, I’m a regular contributor for Guideposts magazines and have published a 365 Day Devotional, Light Up The Sky. I’m currently working on a historical fiction novel based on my grandmother’s life. Instead of holding me back, that blinking cursor now represents endless possibilities.