I sit down at the computer, fingers poised over the keyboard and nothing happens. The words do not flow. Creativity is absent. All there is, is the white page.
The evil white page.
It stares back at me and I am reminded of that saying, 'When you stare into the abyss, the abyss also stares into you!'
What, I wonder, does the blank page think of me? Is it laughing at me? Or is it as frustrated as I am? Perhaps it wants to be as filled with words as badly as I want to fill it. Perhaps writer's block is as problematic for the blank page as it is for the writer?
Or perhaps the page is just evil.
It certainly feels that way sometimes. As if I'm facing a metaphorical version of Snidely Whiplash, grinning and twirling his mustache in all its glory.
Actually, now that I think of it, picturing the page as something like that gives me a strong impulse to write. I just imagine each of the letters as a resounding blow on that creep's face.
It is oddly satisfying.