There comes a moment when it’s just you and a cursor on a screen.
There it is, flashing away expectently in the top left corner of a large white field of text.
The moment you start typing, the doubt fills your mind and works its way down to your fingers.
Every word, every sentence just seems empty. Pointless. Self-indulgent. False. Not positive enough. Pompous.
And you begin to wonder – can you even write any more?
I don’t know what writer’s block is. I write every day, short pieces, longer pieces. But can I really write? What is all this copy that’s just streaming out?
What does it mean? Who will read it? Who will care? And will it survive once I’m gone?
Everyone is a writer these days. There are blogs-a-billion, eclipsed only by the number of views on pewdiepie’s YouTube account.
The hope of making some kind of impact on the world through writing feels futile… arrogant, even.
So why bother? I’m almost up to 160 words now, the count at the foot of my screen relentless increasing whilst the meaning of this prose diminishes further and further.
Distractions abound. Look, there’s an email. Ooh, the Twitter icon has turned blue. My phone buzzes with a missive from my… well, now here’s the part where I start self-censoring more actively.
To write is to live. And if I can’t write, can I even live?
Spock kicks in. Of course, don’t be so ridiculous.
You can write. You just did. And you can share it with whomever will read and it really doesn’t matter what they think as long as you think it is worthy.
Stream over. Press publish. Go home. Write again tomorrow.