Some days, like yesterday and today, the words won’t come. I sit and stare at the blinking cursor and realize that my mind is completely blank. It’s not necessarily an unpleasant thing, my brain works overtime most of my days anyhow, but it’s still disconcerting. I flipped through pages and pages of the book I was reading and told myself “I want to write like this one day. One day I will.” Yet how can I when I give up so soon after having begun? Too many days I sit in front of blank pages and wait. Sometimes I just write whatever is in my head. More often than not I just don’t write. Some days I have too many words in my brain and they pour out onto the page. There’s times when I’ll nitpick at those words, although I try not to. Most times I tear the page out and crumble it up. Once again I find myself empty. Too often there’s a black void inside of me that can only be filled by creating something with words. My words. Yet too often, I cannot.