desperation hits its peak

I need to write something.

My hands are just itching to write a story!

But I don't know what to write about.

Still, I really need to write something! Something! Anything! Everything! Give me a topic, please!

It's all the same: I get hit by an idea, I start rounding it up in my head, then I don't know where it leads to and POOF the blasted thing is gone. Because I gave up.

Then I get hit by another brainwaved-tsunami. It's a never-ending cycle.

I just can't decide. Yet I still itch to pick up a pen and scribble dialogues, type prologues and epilogues, pen something interesting and exciting that will hook the reader on the very first page, just like what Artemis Fowl did to me. The frustration of not being able to write is just trapping me like an insect in a jar. Hitting against the glass, but failing to escape. Then eventually I run out of oxygen and die through asphyxiation. What a pleasant present!

I still have the stupid dream of writting a book. My naïvety is still there. I want to write something original, something that has never been thought of before. But this is the 21^st century--how many people have come and gone before me? Surely they'd have all thought of everything already. The notion of having something the world has never seen before is practically impossible. Only an idiot would hold onto that dream.

So why I am?

Because I am an idiot, and a fussy, lazy, temperamental, uncreative, unimaginative, arrogant little procrastinating prick.

I get slightly motivated to join a competition, start having all these mad ideas of the theme and how to dramatise everything, then I sit down with a pen in hand and an examination pad in front of me and suddenly I realise: I don't even know how to start. Yet I already know how it's supposed to end.

I'm not a good planner. And when that happens, I start thinking it over. And just like that, my idea seems inadequate. Useless, even. I leave the table, an opened pen on a blank examination pad, my motivation all gone and feeling at a loss.

English has always been my saving grace, or that was what I believed. I'm not so sure anymore.





So why does my hand still itch?