I have about a half hour to write something, and I have no ideas. The urge to write is prominent, but the subject eludes me as soon as I flip to a blank page.
It's daunting, isn't it? The blank page? Here is the canvas for unlimited possibilities, yet I have none. It's almost like my subconscious mind believes I'm going to ruin the whole thing, so much so that it cannot be fixed. So, instead of experimenting or taking a leap of faith to get something on the page, I seize up, and my mind craves for the page to remain blank.
Is that a foolish thought? I'm a writer, after all. But my only kryptonite is the act of writing itself. What if the words I lay down aren't me? What if they're somebody else? Or, even worse, what if they are me? What if I sound dumb as a bag of bricks when I write out the words I think are the deepest words I know?
And, ultimately, these questions always lead me to the same ending place: what's the point in writing if this is how it ends up making me feel? Am I faking it all, pretending I have a wonderful mind of inspiration, when all I have is a lump of mush inside my head? Nobody will ever want to read the words generated by a lump of mush, right? Am I wasting my time?
And now, my half an hour is over. Procrastination has won, hasn't it? Is the page blank, or a jumbled mess? Ultimately, what's worse?
Both seem wasted, in theory. At least a blank page has another chance to become great. The jumbled mess has already lived and died in its fame.
YOU ARE READING
365 pt 2
Non-FictionHere's a continuation of 365, the story where I do my best to write SOMETHING every day. Wattpad has a chapter limit of 200, and that was reached on July 19th. So, the rest of the year will be written in this, I guess. The first 200 days of the year...
