The Writer Who Cannot Write

This is my story: white screens, a blank page.

My best friend these days.

Because no one told me that writing wasn’t easy. They made it sound so simple.

Almost like a movie: That sudden flash of brightness in her eyes and off she goes. Letters spinning out like a spindled web. Just before the trailer cuts in and the violin chords fade away, the world sees every part of her character. Her face suspended, trance-like, hungry.

The perfect cameo. For a moment, she’s finally known. She has bared herself on the page and is rewarded for it.

I figured that if I wanted it enough, I could just sit down and the words would materialise.

They don’t, though.

And each time I try to make them show up with the frantic tap of keys, or scribble into my notebook, I hate everything I see.

Writing anything is better than nothing, they say.

Why don’t I listen to my own advice?

(Oh, look up: I have something.

That’s a start.)

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