The curser blinks at you.

*blink-blink-blink-blink*

It’s a steady beat. A constant reminder of your lack of creativity. Your tired brain. Your empty train of thought.

You’re me at this very moment. You have writer’s[blogger’s]block.

For a split second, you think you have an idea. A spark!

And then you daydream about lunch, and the spark’s gone.

Bye-bye spark. . .

I do my best writing while procrastinating. It’s how I’m wired. Oh I’m not SUPPOSED to clean the bathroom right now? WATCH ME SUCKAH!!

I’m childish and easily manipulatable. It’s sad.¹

For example, five minutes ago, I told myself I needed to finish (*cough* start…) reading “Good Grief” for the blog book club.

You’ll blog in the morning. I told myself. You won’t even touch your laptop tonight.

Yet here we are, friends.

I have the self control of a flea.

But anyways. Let’s not talk about me. Let’s talk about you when you’re out of ideas. I much rather talk about you.

First—I’m predicting—is that you decided your lack of creativity is due to not finding that perfect, comfy-writing-spot. This will be the moment you wished you had a window seat, because everyone in the movies has a window seat and they never complain.

You spend one to five minutes crying over your lack of window seat. That window seat would’ve been so nice. It even would’ve had a secret compartment under the seat for all your secret stuff. Like diaries, or cookies you didn’t want to share.

You consider writing about your lack of window seat. That sounds like a fun topic! But you quickly forget about it. All you have to write about is that awesome secret compartment, but you don’t want your family knowing about your cookie stash.

You sigh, then grab your laptop and frolic from the bed, to the chair, to the couch, to outside. But there’s bugs outside. So you shuffle back in the house and finally end in the same place you started.

You sit to write.

Now, your glasses require your attention. You don’t have time to grab the proper wipe and glass spray. In fact, you can’t get up at all because getting up would waste all that time and energy you spent on finding a comfortable spot.

You use the bottom of your shirt, swirling in gentle little circles, and place the glasses back on your nose. Of course, now the glass actually looks dirtier than when you started! What black magic is this?! You remove the glasses and repeat the process from before.

Then comes a thought. A reminder. A nagging feeling. A feeling of loss and helplessness. You feel a black emptiness surrounding you. That familiar vibration. That chime of a text message.

It’s gone.

All fake-productivity comes to a grinding halt as your mind fills to expansion with three little words.

Where’s my phone? 

You begin by glancing around the room, trying to spot it from your half-lying-down position on the bed. You check the blankets and under cushions and pillows. You ask your stuffed Teddy Uri if he’s seen the phone, or perhaps if he’s sitting on it. You stare blankly into space for thirty minutes, retracing steps in your mind’s eye.

You’ve lost your baby. Your blog post will have to wait.

Of course, your phone will provide absolutely no assistance in writing your blog post, but $100 dollars says you won’t realize this until you have it in your hand once again.

You’re stubborn, so you’ll attempt to find it on your own until you’ve completely turned your room upside down. Blankets and shoes will litter the floor. Your mattress will be off kilter. Clothes spill out of open dresser drawers. The legs of your cushy chair reach for the ceiling. Then, you will give up and call your cell on the house phone, only to find it buzzing on the nightstand beside the bed—an arm’s reach away from where you were sitting to write.

You go through the typical, angry-hurt-scared-happy Don’t you ever scare me like that again, you hear?! stages of motherhood.

Settling down, you return to staring at the curser on your screen. It’s strangely soothing. It’s surrounded by white space, but seemingly as happy as could be.

*blink-blink-blink-blink*

It’s at a party all alone. You watch it dance, and play peekaboo. You try to adjust the rhythm of your blinks so that every time you open your eyes the curser would have vanished. ²

This entertains you for longer than you’ll admit, but sadly, you cannot dedicate a blog post to playing peekaboo with the curser. What a cruel world we live in.

Life has now entered your index finger. It finds it’s way to the YouTube bookmark on your default window and clicks. This motion alone has instantly lost you three hours of your day. You’ll try to justify this, though. Oh I’m just going to watch a few YouTube videos for inspiration. Then you’ll do the same on Twitter, Instagram, Bloglovin’, Facebook, etc etc.

You won’t be writing anytime soon.

But this is okay, because you didn’t have anything to say, anyways.

Later on, you will be back to staring at the curser. It’s kinda pretty.

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¹ I didn’t think manipulatable was a word, but my computer says it is. I have no idea how to pronounce manipulatable—or half the words I use in my writing. That’s why I sound ten times smarter in type. Tricked you.

² Who’s totally going to try this next time they have to write?