I told myself that I would write today, write something real. This is no different from any other day. I never even left the couch, except to make the Little People food and to use the restroom. Instead, I sat and stared at the laptop the Mister got me for my birthday a few weeks ago and told myself I would open the notepad and write something. And I did, open the notepad app, I mean.
I sat and stared at that blinking cursor for so long and waited for inspiration to hit as I told myself that I should just start typing and see where it took me. I thought about pulling out some paper and a pen and outlining a story but that hasn’t always worked out so well for me in the past. And so I began to read something else.
I envied the words I had read earlier and once again wished that I could write like that. I told myself that I would try, really try to write something, anything. And now I have a headache.
Every day that I don’t write something I see my dream of becoming a writer slowly slipping through my fingers. And it’s not that I don’t have the desire to write, it’s just that when I sit down, the words won’t come. Rows and rows of blank lines face me instead and I freeze in fear. I give up just as quickly as I started.
I opened this page instead and wrote about how I cannot write and I wonder how many more days will go by of me writing the same nonsense before I write something I am proud of.