How much of my life do I spend trying to write? All those hours spent staring at a blank screen while the neurons in my brain spark feebly, trying to catch fire.
Clutching at the fleeting wisp of an idea; not solid enough to cling on to, to make real.
What if there are only so many? What if I run through mine too quickly and have nothing left but gaping emptiness?
Sometimes I find myself writing, as the sense of familiarity grows and I realise: I have had this idea before. I have written this article before, in different words. I have had these thoughts independent of one another.
Are there new ideas, or only those that have to be recycled?
It’s not the blue screen of death we should be worried about. It’s the blank screen of despair.
What is a writer without words?
Still, those blank hours aren’t wasted. The brain in recovery mode. Reset. An idea; sparks.
Words are never a waste.