[no name]

I hate blank pages. I always have. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always loved drawing and writing, but I simply loathe blank pages. Where do you start?

I used to be able to just… well, start. I’d write a sentence and the words just flowed from there. Those days are long gone. Now, all my attempts at writing seem to start with some form of “I don’t know where to start”.

What happened to the girl who wanted to be a writer? The girl who wrote stories so sad and strong that her senior high teacher pulled her aside and told her (in not so many words) that she should cheer up? What happened to the girl who wrote about her feelings, and the things that peeved her? Who wrote about gay men with AIDS, lost and forgotten by family and friends. About women so obsessed with their ex-boyfriends that they killed them, only to kill themselves shortly after. About young boys with incurable cancer. Children who’s father was an astronaut, leaving on the first shuffle after the Challenger-incident. I’ll never forget the essay about the serial killer who killed by infiltrating people’s dreams. It got me an A. On an exam no less. What happened to that girl?

I have a theory.

She discovered reality. She discovered that people really do lie dying of AIDS, forgotten by the world. And that unless you’ve been there, and experienced it, you have no right to try and describe it. That the serial-killer stories have been done in every which version imaginable. As for writing about ex-girlfriends who kill you… well, let’s just say it’s no pick-up line…

One thing I can support though. One thing I do know. The pain of loosing someone to cancer. Those are feelings I can describe with painful accuracy. So painful in fact, that I just can’t do it.

And where does that leave me? Empty. Useless. The girl who once wanted to be an author ended up stealing other people’s characters, sticking them into sorry little love stories and posting them as fanfiction under a false name.