For many days now, I’ve been wondering what I want to say. Nothing comes up. It’s a sensation similar to what you would see when you peer into Homer Simpson’s head – empty space, a cavern of idiotic blankness. I will a thought to start, and then all it does is bounce around, echoing itself without extending forward to completion.
I’ve been given excellent advice by writers, which is to create a routine of writing. I’m trying to follow it, like an earnest devotee. Same time, every day, I faithfully sit with my tablet. Okay, that’s not exactly true. There are days when I stare into the distance, eyes glazed and unfocused, willing myself to tap a finger on the tablet so that I can then stare at the blank canvas. The words will spill out, I argue with myself, you just need to get started. Soon, I’m imploring myself. Write anything! Even if it’s gibberish, just write. Stubbornly, the hand does not move to pick up the tablet, which sits beside me, mocking my pathetic inertia. I’m pretty sure I go through the seven stages of mourning, from passionate denial to weary acceptance, every morning.
So here I am, writing about not writing. And in true form, so you don’t mistake my dilemma for whining, I can’t think of what I want to say.