“Why have I published only one post in March,” I asked the blank screen in front of me. Did I expect an answer? I sat and waited for one. I guess I did.
“You’re asking me?” appeared on the screen. “I’m a fucking blank screen. What do I know about why you can’t write?”
“How would he know what a blank screen would know about anything?” Was the response. “He’s never been a blank screen or even talked with one for that matter.”
“True,” I said. Or I thought was me that said it.
“It seems as though you often have to write a very stupid post about how you can’t write to start writing. I’m not an authority, though. It seems to be a pattern.”
“Dostoyoffsky and Tolstoy had similar problems,” someone or something added. “Afer they died, the taxidermists found that each had trunks full of notebooks in which they wrote stupid essays about how they could not write their novels.”
“Taxidermists?” I asked.
“Maybe it wasn’t taxidermists. Maybe it was the haberdashers. Or the upholsterers. Or something else.”
The Ambien was starting to take effect. I was yawning and making less sense than usual. Way less.
“I’m probably not going to finish this tonight,” I said to nobody in particular.
“Fine,” nobody in particular answered. “Go to sleep. Come back tomorrow. Minimal editing and publish it.”
I yawned again and went to sleep.
And when I woke up, it was April.
“Fuck!” I said. I better post this before May.
And I did.
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