I have nothing to write. 

I’m just letting my fingers run along the keyboard and seeing what comes out.

I’m doing an ENGLISH degree. This can’t happen. I’m meant to be a mind of creative wonder, with the imagination of a rainbow coloured unicorn speaking Chinese on a raft to Timbuktu. I’m meant to be able to write constantly and consistently, but instead I’m contemplating cleaning my ceiling. I’ve already cleaned my floor. I bought actual proper floor wipes, no water and cloth here, and scrubbed it until Beyoncé’s reflection beamed back at me. And it smells like oranges. I have a fruity floor. As soon as anyone walks through my door, I faceplant them to the ground to smell it. BE IMPRESSED.

Help me.

This is procrastination at its best. I’m so desperate not to write that I’m going out for pancakes later. I HATE PANCAKES. Every year I say, “MAYBE THIS WILL BE THE YEAR MY MOUTH LIKES PANCAKES AND I CAN JOIN IN WITH GLEE.” But every year I end up with my nose screwed, frantically squeezing every last drop of syrup into my mouth to drown the now sludgy and rubbery pancake mess just lolling on my tongue. 

Maybe this can be my obituary. Death by inability to English. WORDS NOT DO THE GOOD WRITE THING OF THE LANGUAGE WHY YOU NO HELP written upon my gravestone. Those at my funeral will sob as they try to place a pen in my hand, only for it to flop out. “SHE TRIED TO TELL US,” they’ll cry. “IN THAT BLOG THING SHE DID FOR THAT WEBSITE. WHERE I SAID EXACTLY WHAT I’M SAYING NOW wow that’s weird.”


Everyone gets it though, right? Writer’s block. Little men in your brain rifling through filing cabinets and flicking through folders, running into one another as they drop paper everywhere and scream, “NOPE. GOT NOTHING.” in reply to another shouting, “THERE MUST BE SOMETHING OF USE IN HERE.” Imagine if that happened in real life, with real life conversation. Tumbleweed rolling across the eyes. The little brain men leaning out your ears saying, “Just give us two minutes, caller, thanking you please best wishes kind regards.”

It’s just a phase. I’ll be fine in a few hours. I’ll wake up tomorrow having written all over the walls in my sleep like one of those child prodigies in scary films. 


It’s fine. See, I can do this. Writing’s easy. Writer’s block? More like Writer’s FLOCK… of words… on a page. Or something. Oh god, I’m losing it. No. Don’t go. Stay. I love you. Words, COME BACK. WE CAN WORK IT OUT. SMELL MY FLOOR. *shoves to ground*