I’m not good at writing on a deadline. I often tell people this is the reason why I don’t want to be a writer. Nobody wants to become a writer, other aspiring writers have knowledgeably informed me. It’s not something that you set out to do; it just happens. And then they return to edit the fifth draft of their novel, scribbling furiously on the papers in front of them. 

Writing (or attempting to write) when you don’t know what to write, or how to write, or why you are writing what you’re writing is single-handedly the most frustrating part of believing you can, or could ever, write. It’s harder than framing, editing, vetting, or sending that one risky text.

As always, my consumer capitalist self succumbs to the black hole — the sole object of my current affection that is Etsy — because when is stationery not the answer? Is it even possible that this exact rose gold spiral notebook with embossed palm fronds (monogrammable!) is not the solution to my strife? Maybe I’ll finally start handwriting and delete all the Facebook-blocking, more-likely-than-not virus applications that clutter my computer. 

I am currently on my second cup of tea at Murray Dodge and only just discovered that it is caffeine-free. It explains everything. I switch to a highly underrated coffee/hot chocolate blend. Sugar and caffeine; this must work. I think briefly about how Einstein used more of his brain daily than I ever will and this vexes me. I Google “Adderall” and then close the tab in less than a second. 

I once read about this island in Sweden called, unsurprisingly, Ideas Island, which you can live on for a week for free to develop creative ideas. 

In another life, I would be a Swede. 

In another life, I would be a human with naturally Einsteinian brain functioning. 

In another life, I would have my creative writing assignment done.

But for now, in this one, I have a five hundred-page blank notebook, two cookies, and one empty Word document. 

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