Writer's Block

When I walk into Office Max there are a few aisles I always walk down. The first holds rows and rows of notebooks. Some are cheap, glue bound, brightly colored notebooks designed for kids. I know after a little use the pages will start to separate from the binding. There is the cardboard covered notebooks with a metal spiral down the side. Then you get to the small or unusual notebooks, some have plastic covers and others have the spiral along the top.

It is not enough to just look, to fully appreciate the selection, you need open them. Look at the steno notebook with the line done the middle, perfect for the lists and ideas I surround myself with. I find the slightly yellow notebook with graph paper, it draws me back to many a Dungeons and Dragons session. They call to me. I then move to the expensive selections, I know I won't buy them, but the hand crafted sketch paper or stich bound hard cover books just beg to be filled. Blank pages are all opportunity. You can go anywhere with one. Tell any story. They are perfect and stimulating.

The next aisle is contains rack and pens. Some are the cheap kind, the ones you find everywhere. In my mind these pens hurt my hand, cause me frustration because they won't write, have air bubbles that cause your words to fade in an out from existence. I don't buy these. I look at the pens that are thicker, a little weight to them, the kind that could produce a novel. I look at the one that have a grip, which I know will massage my fingers when I hold it. I find the one that will glide across the page. A smooth stream of thoughtful ink.

On my desk these things change. The page of the notebook is not just perfect, but too perfect to be written in with some common story. Every blank page does this to me. My eyes are wide with possibility, but no idea seems good enough. Do I write on Rob, who I tortured in high school? Not enough there. Do I write about living with my Aunt in College? I needs more substance. Do I write about pining for some girl because I was young and stupid? I might not be able to both evoke the emotion of the time and show how starkly different I am now. While I watch the page, the page watches me.

I start an thought and stop. Again, I imagine what I will say, but I don't think I can say it in the right way. An action story. No. A comedy. No. Then there is nothing. The story ideas are all gone. I pull out my old notebook of ideas on what to write about when you can't think of anything to write about.

I scan across the text. My eyes skip those that are already crossed out. I ignore the fact I can tell these were written with a cheap pen. I lock in, "Write on writing.".

I cross out the entry and close the notebook. I start filling the white space. "When I walk into Office Max...."