This is my story: white screens, a blank page.
My best friend these days.
Because no one told me that writing wasn’t easy. They made it sound so simple.
Almost like a movie: That sudden flash of brightness in her eyes and off she goes. Letters spinning out like a spindled web. Just before the trailer cuts in and the violin chords fade away, the world sees every part of her character. Her face suspended, trance-like, hungry.
The perfect cameo. For a moment, she’s finally known. She has bared herself on the page and is rewarded for it.
I figured that if I wanted it enough, I could just sit down and the words would materialise.
They don’t, though.
And each time I try to make them show up with the frantic tap of keys, or scribble into my notebook, I hate everything I see.
Writing anything is better than nothing, they say.
Why don’t I listen to my own advice?
(Oh, look up: I have something.
That’s a start.)