I have nothing to write. My pencil hovers uselessly above the lined paper, the worn eraser rhythmically tapping the space in between the thirteenth and fifteenth lines of the notebook, never daring to miss a beat. The notebook rests on a solid, white desk, the blank page almost blending into the equally blank background. The white paint is peeling, and it litters the floor, collecting more densely each time a disturbance causes more to flake off and drift down to the wood. Each chip of paint falls slowly, like a new snowflake being welcomed into the never-ending blanket that covers the world at winter.
My chin rests at the edge of the desk. My mind is a huge mountain, looming ahead, blocking the rushing river of words. It's as still as a dormant volcano, waiting to awaken and let the writing roll across the vast landscape of the page like licking flames. The holes in my notebook are deep, empty pools. Nothing but air lies within their depths. Writers block! they scream. Writers block! Writers block! I tear my eyes away from them, drop my pencil, and thrust my face into my elbow. My left hand starts to act of its own accord, relentlessly drumming out patterns on the plastic arm of the chair. I sigh.
And it's then that inspiration strikes me. I sit up straight, pick up my pencil, and as soon as I touch it to the paper, it takes flight. It sketches an image into my mind, one word after another, soaring through each so quickly that they blur before my eyes. And then, I am done. As I look down at the page, now overflowing with words, a single, lonely phrase catches my eye. It's the sentence that sparked the idea, the sentence that started it all. Five simple words: I have nothing to write.