Hello, blank page. I'd say I've missed you, but that'd be a big, blunt lie.

You're just an ass, do you know that? Just an idiot. You're just in the way, you put me off, you scare all my ideas away. I reckon it'd be better if every notebook, or every new document in Word or NeoOffice came with at least some text. Not necessarily Shakespeare or Yates (let's face it, that'd be worse), but just ... something. Anything. Just so the first page wouldn't be blank.

I hate blank pages. I hate them. There isn't a lot in life I use the word 'hate' about, but blank pages are something I definitely hate. ... well, them and Arsenal. Difference is I can ignore Arsenal. You can't ignore a blank page. It's there every time you try to do something useful. Write something worth while. And then you end up just staring at it. Or cursing it. Or doing something else.

Why is it so hard? It's all up here, all of it. The ideas are in my head, like a million movies playing out one clip at a time. But whenever I sit down to write, to put the words on paper, make the images into text, I blank. I mean, occasionally it comes out. But most of the time, it just ... scampers away to some corner of your brain you can't really reach, and hides behind some mundane shit.

And I know I can do it. Because I've done it before. I wrote a book last year. Fair enough, a shit one, but hey; it's a book. Possibly a great book, with some work. So I know I can do it. I just can't force it.