I have a problem.

It’s your problem, too.

I can’t focus. If I can’t focus, I can’t tell you a story. If I can’t tell you a story … well … the whole world just unravels, doesn’t it?

I know exactly why I can’t focus. I have two problems: One I want to go away, and one I hope to keep forever. The one I would like to go away involves a parent and, well, no. That’s it. It involves a parent.

I don’t want to talk about it. Which is probably why it continues to rattle around in my head. And why I can’t focus.

Aging parents. Wow. It’s just hard. Who do you turn to for advice? I used to turn to my mom and dad. But my mom told me I shouldn’t get braces and my dad wanted me to get chocolates for my mom from a chocolatier whose name and location he couldn’t recall.

So I’m not asking them for advice. Especially not on how to manage them.

My second problem is that I met one of my writing idols. We are now friends on social media. So obviously I can never write anything again. What if he sees it? What if he reads it? What if he thinks I’m terrible?

Just the possibility of him thinking I’m terrible is enough to make me end this discussion right here.

Stephen King says he takes a walk when he gets stuck. Well, it’s about one hundred degrees outside right now. And even if the weather were temperate, there’s a dead, squished worm dangling out of the crack in my front steps. I can’t go outside with serpentine animals oozing from cracks in the masonry. What if they get me?

There will be no walks.

With these problems percolating in my gut, my brain flits from potential story to potential story. Do I tell you about my dad’s minivan, with its Fred Flintstone floorboards, ripped-out back seats, and broken locks? He keeps the car’s title and his birth certificate in the glove compartment.

That seems wise.

Or do I tell you about the mistake I made that sent me through airport security twice? No. No! You’re probably sick of hearing about my travels. And is it even funny? I know I wasn’t laughing when I got stuck behind the guy who seemed to realize he was going through airport security only when the TSA agent told him to take off his shoes for the third time.

Then he had to unpack four computers. Four. Who are you? Ethan Hunt? Are you on an impossible mission to keep me out of Montana? And why do you have so much change in your pocket? Or any change at all? Surely you know you can’t go through the TSA X-ray scanner thingie that probably gives you cancer in 60 years with change in your pocket!

I should probably tell you that when I have a problem in front of me, I start worrying about everything. I don’t really think the TSA scanner thingie will give me cancer, but today I’m worried about everything. So even you might give me cancer.

The Guardian suggests I’ve lost my flow, which is kind of like mojo. It’s like the episode of Ted Lasso when Dani Rojas gets the yips. The Guardian says I need a goal that I love to get my flow back.

Well. I would love for that writer to see my writing never. Or when it is Stephen King. Today is neither one of those days.

Ted Lasso fixes the yips with a psychologist. I could go that route, but I’m pretty sure he or she will want to focus on my fear of the dangling dead worm on my front step. I don’t have time for that. I have a deadline.

Besides. My worm fear probably gives every psychologist out there all the Freudian feels. Do I want to talk about what the worm really means?

No.

This piece suggests my work-related stress can lead to lots of caffeine and alcohol intake, smoking, or too much working out.

Well. I think the jig is probably up on which vice I’ve fallen victim to. Four cups of Earl Grey before I even turn on the computer line the pathway to rants on cancer-causing TSA equipment.

PhillyVoice says if I’m going to be successful in my work-from-home situation, I need to get dressed and work out.

Wait. That other piece said I shouldn’t work out too much. If the recommendations contradict each other, can I just pick the solution that works? No matter how bad it is?

Wouldn’t it be great if lots of booze were the answer? I mean, history is rich with boozy writers. I could be a boozy writer. I could be really good at being a boozy writer.

And sorry to say, PhillyVoice, but I am, at this moment and as per usual, writing all of this in my pajamas.

On my sofa.

You know, I try to cap this thing at 900 words. I don’t know why, but I do know we’re almost there. I don’t think we’ve really solved anything here, but I’m glad we’re in it together. Maybe we can take that Stephen King walk together. Maybe the worm won’t seem as scary.

Nah. It’s still scary.

Let’s just get a drink.