The White Page

The screaming white page looms out at me as if to say, "Write something dummy." I stare back, blank minded and stupefied as ideas swarm with abandon, inside my mind, but fail to accumulate into actual sentences, leaving me devoid of inspiration and energy.

If I do have an idea, it will jump hurdles of Olympic proportions until page four of five where it fizzles out and drops off the end of the page. Time and time again, I start a new book only to watch it disappear within minutes or hours. Possible titles come readily, but actual scenes, story line and plot flee to the corners of my mind and torture me with mockery and laughter.

My fingers are willing, my body poised, my desire to accomplish at the ready. Every word is like great drops of blood dripping from my imagination onto an unwilling page, while every sentence formed from such a birthing seeks revenge in the form of (...).

I make every effort to empty my brain of one line wonders, cliché’s of dubious uttering’s, and miles of unchartered wasteland but they multiply into giant balls of rubber bands bouncing back and forth, entangling each other.

One more time I will push through this cesspool of sewage an attempt to find one thing that will carry me beyond a chapter, beyond a scene, and into the realm of chapters, and onto the last word!