His finger weren’t moving. His mind was blank. He watched the empty screen with a growing sense of anxiety in his stomach. There was a world trapped inside his mind, characters whose stories deserved to be told, and told right. The world would be a cruel place to give him such fantastic ideas with no proper means of execution. Yet, the words refused to come. It was like they were sticking their tongues out at him.
He danced his fingers across the keyboard at random. He stared at a random string of letters and numbers resting above a red squiggly line. Sighing, he hit the backspace button and watch the long, non existing, and unpronounceable word vanish. His page was blank again, his mind still empty.
He closed his computer down and stretched. He wanted to go and buy himself a treat for a hard days work, only he didn’t get anything done. He had staring contest with a empty page and lost, but it still took more effort to stare at the page and think than a marathon would.
He sat back down and stared at his notes. There were pages of them written on scraps of paper as the story came to life in spontaneous places. He had been to excited to write it then, the words visualized in his mind, eager to be typed. As soon as he opened up that blank page, though, it was like a light on his brian switched off, and it took the words away.
He opened his computer, and took a sip from his long cold coffee. He opened his iTunes and played his new favorite song “Radio Active” by Imagine Dragons, only a week ago it had been “Today’s Supernatural” by Animal Collective. He looked up details on a new video game he wanted, to discover no new information had been released. He double checked the release date, and looked up some fan art just because he could. He opened up his Twitter account and told his followers, “Currently being distracted by the internet. Help.” He closed off his browser.
He tapped his fingers against each other and reloaded the blank screen. “The” he wrote bravely before deleting it. He sighed and hung his head for a moment. What was it they always said in creative writing classes? Just write something?
“Something won’t cut it,” He snapped at the echo of advise, “It has to be perfect.”
He closed his eyes and tried to think about his characters, their history, motivations, goals, quirks, imperfections. He smiled and started to type. The first sentence was awkward, the second sloppy, and the third was a fragment.
His fingers moved faster as the world took over his brain. The drive to be perfect left as words tumbled from his fingers onto the page. He typed and typed and typed as ideas were made tangible. The first scene of his first draft growing underneath his fingertips.
He stopped when something growled in his stomach. Somehow the sun was gone and blank page and turned into several pages of a first draft. He smiled, shut his computer, and stretched again. This time he smiled as words bounced around his head.