The hardest thing about writing is the beginning, not knowing where or how to start. If I’m being honest, half the time, I don’t even know what to say. I guess the hardest part about writing is actually doing it. I don’t think I was meant to write, but the problem is, I really want to. I have more notebooks than any one person needs, full of crisp, blank pages. I obsessively sit in front of my laptop, drawn to the little Word 2016 icon, but when I open it up, it’s just an electronic version of my dust-collecting notebooks. I stare at the blank screen, and it stares right back. Uninspiring, but so full of judgement.
This has been a struggle for the past several years. I feel empty without writing, but I feel too empty to write. If things were going terribly, I suppose the words would flow as freely as my tears would. If things were wonderful, I’d likely be dripping inspiration. But life is just good; a tad dull and a lot regular. Not that I’m complaining, but who wants to read about regular?
A few years back, the words flowed a bit more freely. I had just discovered blogging, and it was love at first write. Writing, being read, and reading…being part of a community. It felt like family. I can’t remember when or why, but suddenly, it wasn’t the same. Weeks turned to months, and then to a year with nary a thing to say. I had made peace with the void. Then nostalgia kicked in. That bitch.
They say practice makes perfect. I’m not too sure, but I’ll keep on practicing. Maybe it’s a form of therapy. Or lunacy…writing with nothing to say. Maybe I just like the tapping sound of the keyboard. It’s new and shiny, and boy, does it sound lovely. Tap, tap, tap, nothing to say, tap, tap, tap. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see if this turns into more than just rambling. In any case, there isn’t a blank screen staring at me now, so I think I’m onto something.