It’s nearly impossible for him to recall the feeling of inspiration.

Actually, it’s completely impossible.

It’s as though the blankness is a cruel excuse that is set on repeat. There are a vast number of things worth writing about but the initial leap into honesty is much more difficult than coming up with a story. It’s easy to mask a straight-up lie in a flurry of pretty words and scenery but the writer always knows. That knowing inevitably becomes a ghost that haunts you when a new set of eyes are gazing over the words.

True but too poetic. Maybe that’s my problem. I try to be poetic. Although, it used to work….sometimes.

Damn it. I always do this.

Here’s where I start re-reading everything I just wrote and judge it to the point of no return and this is exactly what just happened in my head: Shit. I used the word “him” in the first line like I’m someone else. That doesn’t even make sense when I don’t know who “him” is yet or even what the hell the story is about. My god, there’s not even a story. What should I write about?

After that re-read, this is what happened in my head: Josh, you’re judgmental bastard.

Then, I convince myself to take a new approach.

How’s this for an opening line? The car started with a thud and a whimper but at least it started this time.

Instant judgement on inspiration number two: Nope. That line isn’t honest. My car starts fine. The brakes totally suck and need to be replaced but I’ve never had an issue with it starting.

This is just painful. I hate writing.

(time elapse: 20 minutes)

Now the cursor has been mocking me and blinking at me like some asshole that’s driving down the highway with his blinker on. You know in your heart that this numb-nuts isn’t going to turn for the next 200 miles but you don’t want to pass him so you’re stuck behind him. You’re consumed with doubt about this jerk’s turning intentions and getting pissed off because you have to be somewhere 10 minutes ago but you don’t actually want to be there anyway. Now the fact that you have to be somewhere you don’t want to be; hell, that and your entire life -  is now this guy’s fault. This guy with the fucking blinker that won’t quit. You start wondering about him. Is he deaf? Maybe he doesn’t hear it? If he is deaf, I’d feel bad for him but should deaf people really be allowed to drive? I see postmen driving around now with iPod earbuds in their ears.

Can that be safe?

No. I went through driver’s education when I was 15. I don’t remember much but I know that driving when you can’t hear shit is totally unsafe.

Hey Blinker Guy! What if an ambulance full of babies on life support is behind you and you don’t hear them and they all die because they couldn’t make it to the hospital? How would you feel? You’d feel nothing because you have no soul!! Baby Murderer!!

Yes, that’s right. In my mind, the cockknuckle with the blinker is now a baby murder.

Wait, can you even transport more that one baby per ambulance?

Ok. For the sake of my sanity, I’m going to pretend that there’s a Starbucks on this imaginary exit on this imaginary highway in my imaginary story. I’m gonna stop, get something to drink (and maybe a rice crispy treat), sit there and wait to be inspired.

Maybe I’ll write something.