A pen and paper sat on my desk. I stared down at the soft texture of the paper, small woven fibers, the pen next to it, perfectly still, reflecting the light of the sun from the open window. Outside I could see the beech. It was a relatively lonely morning on the beach. The waves rolled endlessly onto the sand, a gray light created from the mist in the atmosphere. I could almost taste the salt in the air.
But still the paper remained empty. Was their something wrong with my brain? Why couldn’t I simply write, like it was what I was meant to do? It was certainly what I wanted to do. But meant to do? I was not so certain at the moment.
I sat, with a creative attitude as potent as a rock. Surely Mark Twain could just go on and write, but no, not I, who waited for inspiration to strike. I was stranded in my own mind, waiting, just waiting in a little box, hoping, just anguishing for the right words and letters, the sentences, oh the sentences, when would they come? Did they come? Perhaps only a select few are meant to be writers, and I am simply losing faith that I am a part of that rare class.
My frustration grew to the limits of my tolerance, and I left the paper and pen on the wooden desk. Nothing seemed more frustrating then the inability to do something that you truly wished you could do. All those day dreams of my book finished, published, of how I would sit and enjoy my sentences I jot down, of all those once enemies I had, humbly bowing to me. How foolish now, as I simply cannot get one little phrase down. And when I do manage a few paragraphs, I re-read it and am sorely disappointed. Why can’t I make anything up? Why is it so hard to make up a stupid story?
Thanks, that makes me feel better and less of a perfectionist.
