Dear hand, Please type. Regards, Luke.

An empty white page and that blinking cursor. That damn blinking cursor. Go on and write something, it mocks you, you’ve got my full attention. It taps away like the impatient leg of a child forced to wait. A child whose wide eyed desperation to be entertained leaves you embarrassingly flabbergasted.

The problem isn’t getting an idea; no those bad boys are popping like fireworks in my mind. To grab hold of one of those streaking lights and spread it onto the page would be so revelatory that my contemporaries would nod their heads rapturously and cry, “Yes that’s it! You’ve said what I always wanted to say but never knew how! You’ve totally nailed the key to the human experience!” The problem is most of these fireworks are streaking in colour and scope only I can see and how can I possibly begin to convey something so revolutionary?

The idea always feels so perfect and fully formed in my head. Where can I possibly start?

I once spent six months solely devoted to writing. I bought a laptop, arranged my desk into neat open spaces and cut out little square business cards. At parties friends would elicit sighs of wonder at my chosen occupation, “Wow I wish I had the courage to quit my job and do that!” and, “I really admire you for having the skills to write.” But my nonchalant shrug would inevitably be interrupted by the cringe inducing question: “So what are you writing?”

“Well there are a few things I’m working on,” (getting up late, going to coffee shops), “I’m doing a lot of research,” (reading a lot of books), “and I have a novel in development,” (I’ve thought of a title so I’ve effectively started). But such vagaries only left me open to further scrutiny.

“How’s the novel coming along?”

Gestating is the word I relied on. “Oh it’s gestating”. It implied the novel was in my head. Growing, developing, evolving into a complex being. It also implied that one day it would become something tangible: a legacy of my life to cradle and nurture. Whether the project would make it that far was uncertain, but it was an effective stalling tactic to avoid facing that damn blinking cursor.

In the six months of my well intentioned writing sabbatical only a mere handful of projects made it to the birthing stage... and the birthing process was inevitably painful. I would spend hours in front of the laptop crying and writhing in agony and wondering how I ever got myself here trying to push a monster idea out of my head. But it is possible to stare down that damn blinking cursor and I’d recommend you try. If nothing else it’s a good story to tell at a party.

Luke Webster