Taptaptap. My fingers fly on the keys, vomiting ideas, spewing creativity like seawater through a whale’s spout. Tap, tap, tap. Tap…tap…tap… My fingers slow, like a runner that has just realized he is running hard and fast to nowhere at all. Rereading what I’ve written, the little, black scribbles on virginal white background twist, leering at me. And they suddenly appear loathsome to me, like the flavor of curdled milk.
Aaagh! Worse than writers block, I’ve been emitting pages and pages of clichéd writing, words and lines and paragraphs of nothing at all! I suffer from the curse of a writer, criticizing my word vomit harder than anyone else. I berate myself. I want to smack myself in the head with my laptop, stab myself to death with my pen, somehow find a way to injure myself with my flowery purple stationary. I want to throw myself uselessly out of my first story window. I clench my fists until my hands grind themselves to dust, so that I don’t throw my computer against a wall.
I press the little red X in the corner of the screen. No I do not want to save! I scream this in my head, my non-voice echoing against my skull. I have no genius in me. I can only stumble to bed and dream of beautiful, masterfully subtle words twisted out gracefully on milky white pages…