I want to write something. Anything. There's an itch tingling on my spine and body urging me to get a pen and papers and start writing. After spending sleeping the whole day the previous day, I just want to write and vent my frustration over performing badly on an exam for a writing job (why the fuck haven't I seen sooner that the sentence How quick Mary runs should be How quick does Mary run? and the other sentence He and she were good friends should be They are good friends. Why the hell that I always turn into a clueless lousy writer when faced with the opportunity to get a writing job or, if am already have the job, I would always regress into that old me who writes haphazardly, in haste thus producing badly written articles whose grammar mistakes are so atrocious my editors would always love to hate and kick me out the job and out of their professional lives?) I just want to write to prove and tell myself that I know how to do it, and do it very well.
The force driving me almost mad is so intense that I rush to my chaotic room, where books, piles of papers in which unfinished stories, stories needed for revisions, draft essays, scratch copies of my blog postings lay splayed on everywhere. I rummage for the pen and papers. I got a couple of used papers but there is still free white space to write on on the back so I take it. I pay no attention on the computer at the corner which is basically dead and useless for several months now. It's harddisk bogged down and I have no extra cash to purchase a new one.
And then I promptly sit before the table, raring to write, something. But, wait. I fidget for several seconds and strare at the white space of the paper, holding the pen in the stance of writing: I HAVE NOTHING IN MY MIND TO WRITE ABOUT.
My mind runs fast and I cannot get hold of something, any idea for a subject to write about. There is nothing in my head. Nada. There is only the urge to write. The terrible, frustrating feeling to write. I can hear myself saying: You can write. But there is nothing; there is only a meaningless transparent air around me, and that desperate urge to write.
I have been in this situation before. The realization is like a deja vu, and I know very well that I could sit and think and force myself to write something for hours on end on the blank papers staring mockingly at me and, still, nothing will come out of it. Nada. I would still produce nothing.
I don't know what I should call this experience, but it definitely is not a writer's block. For how can I call it as such, when I am NOT even a writer in the first place.