It starts with a blank Word document, usually early enough in the day when sunlight still seeps through the window, offering some comfort. I’ve procrastinated, surely, but I tell myself it’s okay. I thrive under pressure, I say. I type some fuel-pumping words to get me started. ENERGY! DON’T STOP. DO THIS. I breathe. Then I think. I come up with nothing.
I sift through my notes, pages of them. I type out verbs and adjectives that sound right. But sentences? I cannot do. Not now, at least. I think about the big picture. I come up with nothing.
I calm my mind with snacks and blog-reading. I chug a can of green tea. Remove yourself. That’s the key. Call a friend. Watch some TV. Take a shower. Now go back. For some reason, the screen looks emptier than it did before. And it’s getting dark. You stupid girl. What’s wrong with you? Just write a damn sentence! I hate this. Stare.
Why did I become a writer? Sometimes I don’t know. It gives me headaches. It keeps me awake. Why would anyone do this to themselves? I’m going to quit. It’s not worth it. The house is now silent, all have gone to bed. I’m drowning in trail mix wrappers and empty green cans. The clock is my enemy. Still, I come up with nothing.
There’s no use sitting here any longer. I’m done. I’m going to bed. I’m giving up.
And then.
Somewhere deep in my slumber, the words come. I wake up with a jolt. Okay. That’s it. Remember this. In the morning, I sit back down at my desk and start writing non-stop. It feels natural. It feels right. I’m okay. And once again, I am a writer.
