The cursor blinked on the blank white screen. I watched and waited but no words danced from the keyboard. No perfectly memorable sentences flashed into brilliance. Ideas flitted across my mind and evaporated before forming. Unrelated words formed kaleidoscopic patterns; merged as nonsense and dissolved. Nothing eventuated.
Just make a start. We always have something to say.
I remember half-started ideas of the past. Maybe I could make something from them.
We have Readers now; people are relying on us.
We can’t afford to write shit.
C’mon, we write our best under pressure now go and get a biscuit.
I start thinking about biscuits. All I want is to sit and eat biscuits. I think it will help me concentrate, but I think it better to distract myself instead.
I get up and walk away to the mirror. Staring at myself I wonder if there is anything I would not write about. Inevitably putting me into my writing leaves a piece of me to be judged and sometimes my loved ones too. I am a private person and I don’t want to expose my family unnecessarily; but we are intertwined and I need to write from experience. My family has a right to their privacy and yet they provide me with a rich resource.
Who do we think we are? Who wants to listen to us, exactly?
I stare at the creases and lines around my eyes and wonder at the flecks of brown in my green irises.
We could write about iridology, except we know nothing about it.
My hair is awry, growing tendrils have escaped my headband and its greying in front of my ears and at the nape of my neck. My neck is long and thin, wrinkles are appearing on my throat and my collarbone is starting to protrude.
We keep harping on about body image.
I looked out the window and could see our tamarind tree swaying in the breeze. I think about how much I love looking up into the tree canopy seeing the green leaves contrast against an impossibly blue sky.
Oh, trees now, what do we know about trees?
I sat back down at my taunting screen. I rubbed my eyes and twirled my hair and tried to make the words stick. I cannot get myself to co-operate.
At least we’ve given people an insight into a difficult us.
Someone else in the room asks me what I’m blogging about now.
I tell them I don’t know I haven’t written it yet.
I rub my face, yawn and wander off to find a biscuit.