I stare at the blinking cursor on the blank word document in front of me. Funny it’s called a word document when there aren’t any actual words. The cursor flashes steadily, reminding me with each pulse that’s another second that’s gone by without writing. I start counting along. One…two…three…fifty-five…almost a full minute. How quickly that time passed; how little I’ve gotten done in those fifty-five seconds. I start thinking about life and how it applies to this very situation. People stare at an empty screen, waiting for something to fill it up as time slips by them. The next thing they know, it’s years later and they still sit and stare at nothing. Pretty heavy stuff, man. You dig?
My creativity and general lust for writing has been non-existent in the last month. I have no good ideas, and the ones I think of are also not good. Fuck it, I should just write a story about vampires. The last resort is always vampires…or zombies. Hey! What about vampire zombies?! Step aside, everyone; I got this.
Aside from the idea stream running dry, I just don’t feel like writing. Well, that isn’t exactly true; I feel like it and then stare at my computer for an hour, and then give up, clearly defeated and disappointed in myself. I tried to identify exactly what my deal was, why I just haven’t had it–whatever it is–for a month. Part of it is the new job. Before the job, I didn’t have much to do than write. Now I’m employed, I come home and just let the bustle and commotion of the day ooze out of me. I’m tired physically. My feet and back hurt and I can hear the voice of my late Grandma Esther say to me, “you need to get better shoes. And stand up straight. If you don’t have good posture now, you’re going to end up hunched over when you’re my age.” Okay, Grandma, I will. Mentally? Mentally, I’m exhausted. I sit out on the patio for hours, contemplating my life and other really philosophical stuff.
But mainly, my problem is him. Wait–let me capitalize Him. Make Him the proper noun he is without personalizing this too much. He (also another name for Him) and I are no more. We were and now are not. Kind of like when Madonna dated Dennis Rodman. He and I, me and Him, we had this thing. It was a pretty good thing, great even, at least to me. We wrote together, as this was our shared thing. He is more talented than I am, and I was intimidated by his success. Not in a bad way or anything, but more in an incredulous “you want to write…with me?” And write we did. Many lazy weekend days were spent across from each other at a table, laptops back-to-back, in some sort of word version of Battleship. We’d each be off in our own fictitious worlds, yet sharing the same air…and ashtray. It was indescribable sharing this with Him. I never shared my writing time with anyone before, and He was my first. My ex-husband never really cared much for my interests or hobbies or what I was passionate about. I never let him (notice the lack of proper noun-ing) read my work because I knew he wouldn’t be interested in it. But He was, and I will probably always love Him forever for that one small thing we shared.
But He stole away my want to write. Perhaps He was my muse and I didn’t realize it at the time. Or maybe writing now reminds me solely of Him and Us and it’s still too raw of a wound yet.
Or maybe I’m just being lazy and making excused and trying to blame Him.
Whatever the case may be, I continue to stare at the blinking cursor, waiting for the words to come back to me.