What should I write about? I plunge into the deepest parts of my mind, scraping the edges of my brain for any morsel of an idea I can find. It’s no use. My brain is just a barren wasteland.
Now, I’m not saying I’m a terrible writer or that I never have ideas, but at this moment, I have nothing. Blank. My mind is a sea of emptiness, and nothing is coming to me. I sigh deeply and throw my pen on the dining room table in frustration. It rolls a few inches across the wooden surface before colliding with my glass of sweet tea. I slam my writing journal shut. What’s the use? As a wannabe writer, there have always been discouraging days where I feel like giving up. Why bother writing? I never have any good ideas anyway.
I shake my head and my long blond hair falls forward, framing my face.
Deep down, I know that’s not true. I know I have good ideas. They just aren’t coming to me right now. Looking for inspiration, before diving head first into the uncharted waters of a new project, would probably have prevented this predicament.
I glance at my watch and slump down in my chair. The hard metal backing jabs into my side uncomfortably, but I’m too lazy to change positions. I’ve been sitting here for an hour with no progress. Out of boredom, my eyes take in the room around me. It’s late at night and the only source of light comes from a makeshift crystal chandelier dangling from the ceiling directly above the table. The light is dim, yet still casts eerie shadows along the conjoining living room wall. The dark figures dance side to side as the chandelier rocks slightly. I’m not sure why it’s moving. There must be a draft, though I don’t feel any moving air. Creepy.
Maybe I should just give up for the night. Defeated, I awkwardly pull myself out of my chair, flip the light switch, and make my way through the darkness to my bedroom. Waking up to a new day should refresh my mind. It always does.