I know it’s a first world problem. It’s up there with having too many friends to invite to the party, or choosing which dress to buy with birthday money, or forgetting the password to the Netflix account. And with the housing bubble being what it is and the refugee crisis and the world being forecasted to end three times in the next five years, I know it may seem trivial. But I assure you, it’s real. Writer’s block.

It eats away at my soul. I can spend hours, days, weeks, staring at a blank page. Balled up pieces of paper surrounding me, haunting me. First lines and opening monologues scratched out. Ideas eerily reminiscent of Harry Potter discarded. Rough drafts with only the author’s name to go from. 

I set alarms to go off in the middle of the night, hoping I’ll interrupt a dream featuring a dream within a dream. One that I can turn into the next winner of the Man Booker prize.

I read classics over and over, trying to find my version of Mr Darcy or “stay gold Ponyboy”. J Alfred Prufrock wanders aimlessly around in my head.

I go out and purposefully fall in love, just so I can have something to write about when they break my heart. Writing poems about the same boys over and over. Hoping that each time the same story will sound new. Taking different pieces of their personalities, turning them into one being, the ultimate muse.  

I time my walks for when the sky is soft and pink. Go for long strolls along the beach, Nicholas Sparks style. Spending my days looking up and around at the universe, hoping that it’ll elicit some Biblical revelation, and with it a story of the same ilk.

I try haikus. Epic novels and quintets. Short stories paired with long essays. Discovering whether acrostic poetry is my niche market (it’s not). Experimenting with every form of the written language, trying to find something that works. 

Because I know I need to write. It’s something that has surpassed all other fancies and whims. It has become an integral part of me. Not just a desire, but a necessity. I need to write like I need to eat, to breathe. It is the only way I can make sense of myself, the human race, our entire existence. I write because I can’t not. It is the only way to maintain my sanity, reason for living. I know I need to write.

The question is, what?