I sit down. Hands on keys. My mind? Empty. A hard, ringing empty, like a room that used to have sound but someone yanked the plug. I stare at the blinking cursor, and the blinking cursor stares at me. We are enemies. We are lovers. We are locked in a brutal, endless standoff.
I type a sentence. I delete it. I type another. Worse. Delete. My fingers stretch, crack, hover. I pretend I’m thinking, but really, I’m waiting for divine intervention. Or at least a caffeine surge. But my coffee is lukewarm and sad, like it’s been sitting too long in the breakroom of my own despair.
Nothing. The words won’t come. They are brats. They are hiding under the bed, giggling, stuffing their little word-fists into their little word-mouths so I don’t find them.
I consider writing about something safe, something neat and tidy, like productivity hacks or morning routines. “Wake up at 5 a.m., meditate, journal, drink lemon water.” No. No. NO. I would rather chew glass.
I get up. I pace. I check my phone. No notifications. I put it down. I pick it up again, like maybe in the last two seconds someone sent me an urgent text: Hey, I have the perfect idea for your blog post, here it is, word for word. But no. Just the cold, indifferent glow of the screen.
Back to the laptop. Cursor still blinking. I glare at it. It glares back.
Maybe I should give up. Maybe I should lie on the floor and let the dust settle over me. Maybe I should quit writing altogether, move to the woods, start a quiet, non-verbal life. Become one with the moss. Befriend a raccoon. Name him Gerry.
But no.
Because here’s the thing about writer’s block: it’s a snake eating its own tail. You sit there, not writing, which makes you feel like garbage, which makes you not want to write, which makes you feel worse, and then suddenly it’s midnight and you’ve spent the whole day spiraling into the black hole of your own doubt.
But if you just write, even if it’s trash, even if it’s nonsense, even if it’s a stream-of-consciousness rant about how you can’t write, then guess what? You’re writing. The block isn’t a wall. It’s quicksand. And the only way out is to keep moving.
So here I am. Writing about not being able to write. And somehow, that means I’ve won.
Suck it, blinking cursor.
Post complete.