In good times, the writer looks at the blank page with excitement, with potential, with joy.
Excited by the words they will soon put down, the story they will soon tell, the characters who will soon breath, live and sometimes die. There is potential there, so much potential for things to happen, it is a joyous experience.
Other times, the writer looks at the blank page with trepidation, with fear, with disgust, anger, frustration, indignation.
Fear of the unknown, of the lack of ability, of innate inability to produce anything of worth, anything worth reading, anything worthy of anyone else’s time.
Disgust at the fact that the page lies blank before them, blank, a symbol of the writer’s inability to commit ink to paper or words to the screen.
Anger and frustration at themselves that they cannot seem to get the ideas in their heads out onto the page, such fantastic ideas only to turn into plain boring text on that page.
Indignation, this writer calls themselves a writer and yet cannot, does not, write.
What is this inability, this refusal? This difficulty? Where does this stem from and why?
Writing is work. Work is hard. Make the choice, do it or don’t but do not dwell too long in between. Making the choice to write or not is meaningful. Deliberating over long is a waste.
Do something. Anything.
Don’t waste your time in the middle.