When you don’t know what to write about, don’t write.


It happens occasionally. You take up your pen. Sorry. Your computer and start tapping away on the keyboard. That was your idea anyway. But it feels like there is glue on your hands. The hands do not stick to the keyboard, but they stick together. But words of a story do not emerge from your fingers. They come from your soul. From your past and your experiences. Your imagination.

The imagination part and the dictionary in your mind just clamp shut on occasions. Every writer knows this one. Everyone has been through this patch. They call it a lean patch in sports and writer’s block in books. Why am I writing this? You guessed it. The same old block. Not that there are no ideas. They hide and they refuse to come out, refuse to emerge.

But how can I not write at least one word. One measly sentence. Come on, mind. You can do it.

Got 448 words on the page. Thank you muses. If you girls are still there.

Ideas live in a world of their own. They are your ideas, in only one sense. That they live in your mind. It is the common property of humanity. But only after it comes out. The problem is squeezing those tantalizers out. They mock you by hiding right inside you. 


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