I am staring at the flashing cursor. It mocks me, taunting me and my inability to
put words to the page and further the plot on my “novel”. I am distracted by the fingerprints on the
keys and whatever that smudge is (I don’t really want to know). I will never purchase a black, shiny computer
again. Beads of condensation run down my
plastic cup, leaving a ring on the table dangerously close to the power cord. I
can almost hear the hum of the fluorescent lights about; the music from my
Angry Birds ear buds drowns most of it out.
The clicking, clicking, clicking from the other keyboards in the room
remind me how inadequate I feel about my abilities.
I am surrounded by writers, people who actually identify
themselves as writers, people who make a living at writing. I have never felt more like a fraud than I do
right now. They are all serious. They have sent their works into the ether,
and people have paid money for said works. How on earth can I compete or compare? This whole exercise is an examination of all my shortcomings and self
esteem issues. I have done everything
but write today.
Seriously, what is
that on my keyboard?
I will eventually push through the feelings and the demons
lined up to prevent me from forging ahead in this process. But, right now, I have been beaten back. I must regroup and rearm.
