The blank white of a page, with just one black line that blinks in and out of existence, seems to mock me as I stare at it. It's not fair, to get writer's block now. It really isn’t fair. After everything I’ve thought about while trying to get to sleep, washing the dishes, and even my job at the local Taco Time, now I can’t write a single word on that blank page. But I have to, not just because I want to finally start a book I can finish. Not just because I want to entertain myself for a time. I have to do it because it's my job to tell the story.

You see, there are voices in my head. They tell me their stories - stories of lost loves, of conquered kingdoms, of betrayal and hope and despair. They can’t share the stories with anyone but me, and that’s why it's my job to write them down. Inside my head, where worlds and universes and different realities are, that’s where the voices come from. They aren’t me, they have never been me. I’m their creator, their mother, their god. They don’t know anything or anyone other than whats in my head, and they don’t even know all of that.

Not just voices, either. Late at night when I’m supposed to be asleep, and I’m instead staring up at the stars along my ceiling, I see them. Faces and people, their expressions and mannerisms so clear to me that it’s strange that I’m the only one to know them. I see worlds, entirely different realities. I see mythical beasts and maps of places no one else has seen. I hear their voices, I see their smiles and emotions and personalities better than I can with real people.

So that’s why, sometimes at three in the morning, I wrap in a blanket and sit at my computer and type away page upon page of their story.

Now, though, is one of the times where the voices have fallen silent. I stare at the screen, the page, and try to figure out where all the worlds and people and voices have gone. Just hours earlier my fingers had been bursting with their energy, their entire being, and now they sit poised to type but don’t. A long drawn out sigh slips from my lips as I stare at the page. Now, when I need them most, the voices are silent. I lift my gaze from the blinking cursor up to the line of different tabs in the top of the screen. It's times like these that I switch tabs and go to YouTube or Spotify, and select the playlist arranged for this story.

Now instead of the voices, I have the songs to push me along. The songs I imagine in the voice of my character, the songs with the messages my characters send me. A rhythm, a beat, a tune and a word. That’s all I need to wake up the voices in my head. A small smile crosses my lips as I switch back to the empty document and look at the whiteness with a new image in my head.

Not an image of words on a paper, no. Now the voices are describing to me what happens, what it looked like. That’s the image before my eyes as my fingers begin to move. Well trained muscle memory guides my hands to push the voices in my head onto the screen. The energy is flowing again, through my fingertips I feel a pulsing power. As if my characters very heartbeat is the clatter of keys under my fingers. The voices are now awake, and they’re talking to me. The blank white of a page doesn’t matter, not to the voices in my head.