I see the blank page, and my mind empties, mimicking the white expanse before me.
Like a drunk waggling an empty drink glass at a bartender, my desperation becomes palpable when I realize I have nothing to say.
Perhaps the need to be profound, and have meaningful posts is what drives me to throw away so many ideas with the detritus of the days observations blowing in and out of my mind. Yesterday’s news, present situations, and the odd sound byte of my periphery meander in and out, at times giving me strength, and at others, providing me with the overwhelming apathy of self-criticism and discouraging editor brain once a few sentences have flowed from my fingers.
All writers face this, some prevail. Others spend years yearning for the burst of creativity to finish, or even start. I’m not sure where I fit in that scale of one to one hundred thousand. Furthermore, I don’t know which end of the scale is more desirable.
What wars we wage with ourselves as we struggle to bleed prose onto a page that will mean something to others! sometimes we find it so easy, and off we go, running full tilt into the ether with thoughts so fast that our fingers can barely keep up with the excitement in our minds! Write! Write and let them flee before you!
But sometimes it is so difficult to even type one single word that we simply can’t bear the pain, and turn away to flail endlessly against the metaphorical brick wall. We do anything but write, because figuratively flailing against that brick wall is much less painful than trying to write, right then.
Why am I being so melodramatic this evening?
Because I have stared at a blank page for over two hours, and have yet to feel as if I have found something meaningful to say.