I am on my porch drinking coffee. My toes are beneath a blanket because it is chillier than a penguin’s tail feathers in Antarctica. I’m not sure penguins have feathers, but if they do, they’d be shivering.

I’m also not sure how it can be 85° one day, and 49° the next morning. But the truth is, I like it. I love it because it feels like mountain air. The humidity is low. The green leaves in the woods glow like they’re powered by the sun.

You could explain to me the changes in atmospheric pressure, the movements of upper level troughs that sweep down out of the north, and how that combines with the moisture levels that rise out of the Gulf; how the high pressure pushes it out, and how the low pressure draws it in over our heads, and I still would be amazed at how beautiful it is outside my door this morning.

I’m looking for inspiration. This writing gig I have adopted is not as easy as you might think. My mind is either too full or too empty. I can’t decide which.

My friend says, “You make it look so easy.”

If that were true, writers’ block would not exist. Great ideas would grow on trees. And the stories would write themselves.

I have written about everything from death to diapers. I have gone into great detail about some of the most epic and some of the most mundane pieces of my life. I still cannot believe that during one particular low point, I actually wrote an entire piece about my toilet paper holder.

A writer’s desperation for a story knows no shame.

I wanted to write about the funeral I attended last week. I wanted to find something helpful, maybe even profound to say that would be an encouragement to those lost in the middle of their grief.

But that’s a story that is not mine to share. To write about my own journey through that valley is one thing. To assume to write about another’s loss . . . well, it’s not my place. Hopefully, it’s enough for them to know that I know what they know. We are in this life together.

You see, the difficulty in writing is this. There are periods of time with too many ideas, followed by desperate periods when you question whether or not you even have a brain.

When I have lots of ideas, the challenge is to turn them into stories.

Marion will say to me, “You remember the other day when we went in that store over in Auburn and met that fella in the guitar shop. He was so nice. There’s a story for you, right there.”

Really?

I could write a lot of words. I could describe the scene, the color of the sky, the wall full of guitars, and maybe a few pieces of the conversation. I might even conjure up a little bit of humor. But I ask you, where’s the story?

A real story takes the reader on a journey. It invites them to feel and hear and experience the moment. If a story is doing its job, when the reader finishes, he/she says to himself things like, “I could see everything you were talking about; or, I feel just like that myself; or, have you got a hidden microphone in my house?”

Stories just don’t come from facts. They come from the shared human experience.

For example.

I’m 10 years old. Mama is sending me down to Aunt Annie’s house to borrow some sugar. She gives me a Tupperware container and a sack that I can put over the handlebars on my bike. She’s standing at the back screen door in her kitchen apron.

“I just need two cups. Don’t be all afternoon getting back either. I’ve got a pie waiting on that sugar.”

“Yes ma’am.”

School is just out. It’s early June. Hot. The tar and gravel road in front of our house is sticky and makes a ticking noise beneath my bike tires. A couple hundred yards down I turn left onto the red dirt road. The dust is thick.

Aunt Annie is actually my great Aunt. Uncle Bud was gone before I was born. But I have been playing in her yard chasing the guineas and climbing in the hay barn for as far back as I can remember. She would always have a biscuit and a coke for me when I came by.

Not far up the old dirt road, I see a thicket of plum trees growing above the ditch at the edge of the pasture. They’re not like the big purple plums that Dad has at home. These are wild. A nuisance for farmers, but a pure delight to a kid.

I lay my bike down in the ditch and climb the red bank, clawing and scratching to get a good foothold. These plums are only the size of a marble, but they’re sweet enough to make you pucker.

My stomach full, I pick up my bike and peddle over the hill to Aunt Annie’s.

She opens the door as I make my way up the steps, sack in hand.

She was ancient to me. Gray hair curled up in a tight bun on the back of her head. A hairpin. A simple button-up dress covered by a kitchen apron with yellow daisies on it. I don’t think I ever saw her without an apron except at Church.

“I hear your mama needs a little bit of sugar.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“What kind of pie is she making today?”

“I dunno.”

“No matter. I’ve got two cups already measured out for you. Come on in the kitchen.”

Hers was a small cinder block house with smooth concrete floors. We passed by the ancient piano in the living room on the way to the kitchen.

“You want a biscuit?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I’ve got a cold Co-Cola in the Frigidaire.”

I sat in a cane back chair and ate ferociously. Little half-dollar size biscuits, sweet with honey drizzled over them. The wild plums were not sufficient for my needs, I suppose. Her biscuits were pure heaven.

“You better be heading home. Your mama will be needing that sugar.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You see, there! This is the kind of story I would tell if I really had anything to write about. But it’s not a full-grown story. It needs more. . . more something. More substance.

I was not much of a conversationalist back then. I was not good with words. I even showed Marion my 9th grade English report card the other day. I was failing in the third grading period. The teacher actually wrote this exact note on my report.

“Paul has a poor attitude. He has failed to turn in numerous assignments.”

Today I am failing to put together anything that even looks like the kind of story I like to write. Interesting people. Significant events. Life changing experiences. I have none of that going on in my little pea brain.

So, thanks to Leah for reminding me about the wild plums.

It made me think about biscuits.

And I love biscuits.