You sit at the computer. Your eyes travel along the keyboard, sizing up the letters, as if expecting a word to hit you in the face – the start to a story, a reason for why you’re sitting there. Music pumps from the headphones hanging around your neck. You’re on a schedule; in twenty minutes you have to be somewhere. Still, you keep sitting there, staring at the screen, thinking wistfully that if inspiration could come to you for just five minutes, you’d never ask anyone for anything again. You bargain with God. You make promises to random spirits. You blink a couple of times.
And in aid of what?
Is it fame you want? Is it the money you crave – or the attention? Do you want people to notice you, your talent? Or is this question wasted on you? Do you need an escape from something?
Someone comes into the room; it angers you. You blink away the tears that threaten to fall and hold your head in your hand. In that split moment, you feel weak, empty – like you’ve got nothing left to give. You wonder why you’re sitting there, staring at a blank screen when it’s been months since you’ve been able to write, been able to put words on a page to form a coherent sentence. An ache settles in the middle of your stomach.
You have this physical need to write something. You want so badly,to put the picture behind your eyes onto paper so other people can see it the way you do. That ache grows and grows. It makes you sick. Imagination wants to burst out of you but you lack inspiration. You have nothing to keep you grounded to the story.
Ten minutes have passed. You should leave. You stay seated.
‘Why don’t you write anymore?’ people ask you and your answer is always the same: ‘I just can’t find the time.’ But you can’t write, can you? And then you have this little voice in your head that’s always there – taunting you. You make a promise you yourself; you will write. You just haven’t decided what.
