Is there anything scarier than a blank page? Well, I can think of a couple things, but most of those end with me dying, so the fear wouldn’t last all too long.
This, however? Torture. Staring at infinite potential, while it stares back with a reminder of how much of a failure I am. What kind of writer can’t write? One that’s shitty, at best.
Oh, wonderful, a distraction. Toast is ready. Maybe I should’ve made something that cooked longer, so I could’ve actually started writing something.Oh, who am I kidding, I wouldn’t get a word on that page if I was roasting a pig on a spit. Maybe I also should’ve actually roasted a pig, because I’m already done with my toast and my mind hasn’t even escaped the typewriter.
Back to square one.
It is a wonder, this machine. Anything in my brain can be placed inside of it, and then it spits it out without a hiccup. It takes a while, and the tips of my fingers start to hurt if I try to shove too much, but it beats the hand cramps of pen and ink.
If I had this little thing by my side, perhaps this wouldn’t happen. All those times I write my magnum opus in my mind while I soak in the bath, I could actually be writing it! Instead, I have a 40 pound contraption, that’s really nothing more than an intricate paper holder unless I figure out what the hell to put on the page. I can’t write when I feel, because I have mosey my way to write in the writing room, not in the bath. I only ever come in here when I have to write.
And boy, do I have to write. One would think that relying on my thoughts to keep this roof over my head would force my brain to let something decent flow into them, but all that ever comes to mind when I’m in this chair is the 8th chapter of Gone With The Wind. Not even one of the good excerpts.
Everywhere else I feel like fantasies of romance, unbelievable worlds, and compelling tales mix and mingle in my brain, only to sneak out the back door when I’m not looking, leaving me alone with an empty skull when it comes time to jot it down.
You know what, let’s try something. I just click one letter, randomly, and see where it takes me. Alright, hands over my eyes, twiddle the fingers, eenie meenie minie- you!
Wonderful. That’s one way to waste paper. Well, at least the blank sheet can’t haunt me from the bin.
But, my wallet thins by the minute; so long as I keep the lights in this writing room on, at least. So, if I’m going to be here, I might as well reload the spool.