Words trapped inside. My fingers refuse to type, refuse to move. My jaw locks. My fists tighten. I stare at the blinking cursor and curse it. The little box, devoid of words, mocks me.
Characters weave in my head, teasing me. “Write, write!” they chant, but in a traffic jam – they all cram together at the exit and no one can get out. Even as the flames of creativity burn behind them, they remain motionless.
It is those times I feel most vulnerable. Safety in words, comfort in typing, and when blocked I’m blocked. Locked inside my own head, a prisoner of my own making. Who writes the writer?
But then, then I write about not being able to write, and I sigh with relief as the words flow. Unstuck.