Folks tell me I have a natural talent for writing. But I never know what to say when faced with a blank unfamiliar page.
I have dozens of great stories, from smoking a joint with Vanilla Ice – “call me Rob,” he said – to one night in Nashville where I discovered the end result of mixing Spaghetti Vesuvius and some drinks served in blue plastic grenades.
People laugh when I tell the stories, but rarely has anyone insisted I relate them to a new acquaintance.
Mostly, I let others tell the stories. I’m an easy laugher, and it spares me the quiet humiliation of someone interrupting before I even set the stage.
But when I sit before the flourescent void of a blank page, my thoughts bog down in examination of my debilitating lethargy. I’ve not found the mental traction to power out of my creative bog.
‘Suggestions,’ I’d ask, if I wasn’t so sure my whines were echoing around an empty room.