Is it writers’ block? Lack of inspiration? Or maybe the fact that no matter what I try I always end up leaving things until the exact last second? I’m a cheapskate who usually just drags up her own emotional drama to fill the void of the blank page. Or I gush over something or someone I love. My stories about my boyfriend fit into the latter category.
I thought about writing about my living situation during the quarantine, and the transition between dorm life and the crazy family-filled life living at my brother’s house. But I have a hard time describing my family because I love them profusely, but they also drive me beyond insane every day. It’s the type of thing I’m hesitant about writing about for fear of stepping on toes, we live in a delicate balance. Although what I can say is living with three children two under ten and a teenager there is never a dull moment.
I thought about writing about my feelings toward my absentee of a father. But alas that made me too sad to writing anything of the nature.
I thought about writing something sweet about my boyfriend. But I fear that if I write anymore mush about him, his head will swell so large that he will no longer be able to lift it.
What I ended up writing was a list of broken ideas. I feel as if I am an old school writer with a typewriter; writing a few lines at a time just to rip the page out of the machine and crumple it into a ball to toss in the general direction of the wastebasket. Perhaps taking a long drag on my cigarette to ease my nerves.
But I don’t have a typewriter, only a laptop I bought my second semester of college. And after watching my mother struggle to quit smoking for years I made a conscious choice to never pick up the habit. So perhaps I will write of nothing, filling this void of a blank screen full of words that have no meaning over anything. Maybe it will be good. Maybe it won’t. But it will exist. And maybe that’s more of the point than anything else.