A Paper and A Pen and Me

Could it really just about those things? A piece of paper, a pen and of course, me? Because the truth is, I'm at a block.

It's not about inspiration because I still write when I have no inspiration. I squeeze something out of myself, out of life, to write about.

It's not about satisfaction. I'm never ever fully satisfied with anything that I have written. I am less satisfied with every re-reading.

It's not ideas. I have a mass of ideas constantly floating about in my head. Some formed, some half-formed, some almost formed. They're all just waiting to be put into words.

Right now, I wish I could write something. Anything. Even if I hate it. Even if I use every stupid simile/metaphor/phrase/whatever that I've ever read and hated.

But still, the blank screen of my word processor stares back at me. The cursor is blinking, blinking.

Perhaps the block is made up of all the thoughts of electrochemical analysis, mass spectrometry, vibrational spectroscopy, reciprocal regulation, coupling/uncoupling (which by the way, has nothing to do with sex) and worries about molecular biology wedged at the back.

Honestly, I think it's because I haven't written any of my writings on paper for a month, probably more. It's always the infernal typing and the pixels of my laptop.

I spend too much time browsing the internet looking for more digital instruments for me to write with, write on, read with. And I forgot that most of my writing is done in lecture halls, where I don't have anything except a pen and paper.

In the midst of all my nonsense drawings, doodles and illustrations, sometimes an idea becomes a word. And then more words. And I find that a plot emerges. I miss that.

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Robin: So get off the computer, you idiot!!

Me: Okay, okay. I'm going.