Writing about not being able to write.

The table is full of blank sheets of paper. They are just sitting there, looking all nonchalant, whereas in reality they would very much like me to ink them with all that I have to say. I am stuck in this situation more often than I’d like. Sometimes, it’s Word Docs. The cursor keeps blinking back at me, while I shuffle around with font and colour, only buying time until I pull myself together to write something.

A friend of mine used to look at objects to get her to start writing. She’d look at hats and ladles and shoes with broken heels in order to write tales about them. Someone else I knew would listen to music relentlessly until he stumbled upon a word, an emotion, a note that compelled him to spew out a masterpiece.

I try all of these. It really isn’t something that you can learn off someone. It’s not something you can hammer into shape. I try writing disconnected words hoping to weave a story. Some days, I have stories, some days I have a heap of pretentious gibberish that mean nothing to no one.
Then, when I don’t know what to say, I manipulate the conversation to a point where I am bursting with something to put forth.

The cursor then starts flailing, a seizure of sorts, trying to hold all these runaway thoughts on a leash.