Do stories ever write themselves?

Sometimes it seems so.

They spill forth from our fingertips with no effort

Yet I’ve stared for hours at my paper, and no print rises up

Nor does my pen dip itself and begin to form the letters

The blank white computer window is still blank

No story prints out from the ether

How I hunger to read the next chapter I’ve yet to write

But the words remain in their secret haven

I’ve no spell to speak and draw them forth

I need to know what comes next

I need to be enthralled in the twisting vines of the convoluted tale

I need to feel the flow again.