Writer's block

Why do I write?

Today the blank page seems to be winning. I'm slouched over my keyboard hoping for material to manifest itself through my fingers but that’s not happening. I'm going through the motions, keeping my writing muscles supple, but I'm starting to lose sight of the purpose of why I write.

I'm fifty words into my thousand word quota and the cursor just sits there blinking, as if to ask "You gonna type anything, buddy?"

I try to come up with a shitty first draft, but nothing seems to stick. Stories go nowhere, words don't flow, I'm feeling uninspired. I recall a saying from Peter DeVries, "I write when I'm inspired, and I see to it that I'm inspired at nine o'clock every morning," so I plod on.

I trudge through this madness like only sick people do, and it so happens my sick mind commonly holds monologues in italics. There's no point to it all, it says. You're never gonna become anything worth their weight in words. Why bother? It's not like you write anything interesting. Just look at yourself now, staring at the blank screen. By the way, we're out of bread so remember to get some tomorrow.

I sigh and check Facebook. Nope, nothing new. I switch back and stare at the empty page. A thousand words? You gotta be kidding me. Why not go to sleep? It's midnight.

"But midnight is my nine o'clock!" I say. "Get inspired damnit!"

Don't yell at me. You can't expect me to come up with material without feeding me alcohol. You know how it goes.

"I have work tomorrow! You wanna kill us both?"

I look around and make sure no one’s around. If anyone is, it'd be easier to say I'm on drugs than to explain my outward reflections.

Maybe my mind's right. Maybe there's no point to it all. I switch back to Facebook. I hit the Home button out of habit but accidentally click on my profile page. On it are some of my old blog posts, and at the bottom of each, there's always a couple of people who like my posts. I browse through my inbox and read the random messages that made my day. They still do. Stuff like "Hey, just want to let you know that I enjoy your writing. Keep it up!" from people you haven't seen in a while really does nudge you to go on even when you're tired.

I re-open my blog and start again. I might as well write about my literary impotence instead of brooding over it.

Half an hour passes before I get another page of junk, but at least it's a finished first draft. The amount of half written pieces in my draft box is beyond silly. A writer once said "Quitting a page into your novel is not much different than quitting five hundred pages in. It's still unfinished," and I agree. I feel the odd satisfaction that only comes with hard work, and I get ready to sleep. Editing can wait (which explains the late post this week).

So why do I write?

Because I once heard someone say. "Leave everything better than when you found it."

Sometimes the comments I get are beyond simple appreciation. Sometimes they tell me that they really look forward to my posts every week, or that I have real interesting ideas, or that they enjoy looking at things from a different perspective from their own, or because the words are inspiring.

I may not be as influential as Gandhi or Mother Theresa, may not inspire as many as Mandela, may not change a whole country's history like Martin Luther King, but I do have words. And with these words, I hope to leave the world a better place, no matter how slightly, one soul at a time.

And if you can get over the narcissism and me shamelessly tooting my own horn, then that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I write.