Blank.

The page is as blank as my expression. I realized then why so many of the greatest writers that came before me were addicts or alcoholics. How the hell is someone to write something so magnificent, so relatable, so beautiful that it’s quoted on every Barnes & Noble bag you see someone toting on the subway or mentioned in every English professor’s first day lecture notes, when you can’t even think of a single. Fucking. Thing. I wonder how many others tapping away at their laptops in this overcrowded coffee shop are thinking the exact same thing. Maybe they were given a prompt, or have something to follow. But the most incredible thing about writers/authors? Most of them quite literally pull these stories out of thin air. Of course they pull from memories, from music, art, people. They might pull from historical instances or frankly, they just woke up one morning with the greatest idea they’ve ever had and have now completely thrown themselves into their art. How lucky for them. I wonder if the secret to great writing is adventure. Giving yourself things to write about? Or maybe that’s just the sign of a really bad writer who can’t really find anything interesting to write about. I am perplexed. I have met so many young writers, only one maybe two or three years older than I am. And they’re on book tours! They’re marveling in their gift that they have perfected to a near science. If you have any experience as an editor, you know exactly what I’m doing right now. “Write your truth” you might have said to your latest struggling author. Well, my truth is that I simply have nothing to write about and I’m writing just that. So here we are. Almost a page and a half later and you may just have wasted your time reading words from a writer who simply can’t think of a single thing to write.