I can’t write. I’ve been trying. It’s not that I don’t have things to say. The words won’t come out. They are lodged somewhere between my brain and my fingertips.
I have one-liners expanded into stories where the best part is something like, “And then I said, blah, blah, blah,” and I imagine we all erupt into laughter. But everything before it feels like stage direction. This happened. That happened. And then, and then. There’s no actual story happening, just a bunch of details leading up to what I like to think is funny.
I had one such story in my mind yesterday. The punch line was, “And then I said, ‘Who are you, the Lord?'” I wrote and I wrote until I finally got to that line. When I reread it, I realized that I sounded like a complete jerk. Worse yet, I was so bored I couldn’t even edit it. Plenty of people have laughed at this story before. I started to wonder if it was just uncomfortable giggling all these years and I’ve just played it up.
I abandoned the post. I have considered that I may never tell that story again.
I tried to think of something else to write about. I considered a few topics, nothing stood out. I was uninspired.
I found myself staring out my bedroom window at the neighbor’s house. They’ve been leaving their porch light on all night. For some reason that I cannot put my finger on, this bothers me immensely.
I can’t write a post and they won’t turn off their light. My mind begins to race. What if they never turn off that light? What if I never write anything worth anything ever again? I realize, I mean I fully realize, that neither of these lines of thinking is logical. And yet it goes on.
I snapped back to the present, the cursor blinking in the same spot where I’d left it. I had gotten nowhere.
I am getting nowhere.
I closed the laptop and went to sleep. Another day has gone by.
All I’ve written is this and the neighbor’s light is still on.