Writer's blues

Sitting in front of the computer, staring at the keys, waiting for the words to come. Thoughts, phrases, descriptions, seem to steal upon me at odd moments, darting across my brain like fish in a stream. When I sit down and try to focus, try to make the words come, there is nothing but silence. Of all the things I’ve tried to do in life, writing comes the least easily, takes the most effort, and sometimes offers the least reward. It seems such an odd way to spend one’s life, waiting for something as thin and flimsy as a dream.

It has occurred to me lately that my struggles with writing may not be due to a lack of talent or deep-seated fear. Rather, my problem may lie in the fact that I simply have nothing to say. I have lived for twenty-seven years and in that time, I have experienced many life-changing events. Births, deaths, the beautiful beginnings of love and the occasional ugly endings. The only problem is, most of these things happened to other people; I only write about them. This is my secret: In order to have an interesting life, I have to make it up.