There is a fresh, blank page sitting in front of me, and as I stare at it it seems to stare back. ‘It’s always so hard to get started’, I think. ‘I just wish I could get over the hump without climbing the hill. I feel like Sisyphus, every time I think I’ve gotten to the peak I roll back down to the start.’ I put my pen to the pristine white page and pause. Thinking. Agonizing over what sort of approach I will take this time. Will I be too eager? Will I lose interest? Is it going to be long enough, short enough, authentic or intelligent enough? Black ink has begun to pool where the pen’s tip is still pressed…

My fingers shake involuntarily as I slouch like a giant insect and type this on the computer. I don’t want to write it, but I have no choice but to document what happened here. I could write it slowly, thoughtfully, and clearly, but I can’t—I’ve never been a writer, and I’m in no position to turn this into a professional essay. After all, I have to hurry, we all have to hurry. The pieces of plaster that have fallen from the walls are starting to move like little cockroaches, which means I don’t have much time left. I have to finish this before it gets to me. I can hear the crackle of iron in the pipes behind the wall…

My fingers shake involuntarily as I slouch like a giant insect and type this on the computer. I don’t want to write it, but I have no choice but to document what happened here. I could write it slowly, thoughtfully, and clearly, but I can’t—I’ve never been a writer, and I’m in no position to turn this into a professional essay. After all, I have to hurry, we all have to hurry. The pieces of plaster that have fallen from the walls are starting to move like little cockroaches, which means I don’t have much time left. I have to finish this before it gets to me. I can hear the crackle of iron in the pipes behind the wall…

There is a fresh, blank page sitting in front of me, and as I stare at it it seems to stare back. ‘It’s always so hard to get started’, I think. ‘I just wish I could get over the hump without climbing the hill. I feel like Sisyphus, every time I think I’ve gotten to the peak I roll back down to the start.’ I put my pen to the pristine white page and pause. Thinking. Agonizing over what sort of approach I will take this time. Will I be too eager? Will I lose interest? Is it going to be long enough, short enough, authentic or intelligent enough? Black ink has begun to pool where the pen’s tip is still pressed…

My fingers shake involuntarily as I slouch like a giant insect and type this on the computer. I don’t want to write it, but I have no choice but to document what happened here. I could write it slowly, thoughtfully, and clearly, but I can’t—I’ve never been a writer, and I’m in no position to turn this into a professional essay. After all, I have to hurry, we all have to hurry. The pieces of plaster that have fallen from the walls are starting to move like little cockroaches, which means I don’t have much time left. I have to finish this before it gets to me. I can hear the crackle of iron in the pipes behind the wall…

There is a fresh, blank page sitting in front of me, and as I stare at it it seems to stare back. ‘It’s always so hard to get started’, I think. ‘I just wish I could get over the hump without climbing the hill. I feel like Sisyphus, every time I think I’ve gotten to the peak I roll back down to the start.’ I put my pen to the pristine white page and pause. Thinking. Agonizing over what sort of approach I will take this time. Will I be too eager? Will I lose interest? Is it going to be long enough, short enough, authentic or intelligent enough? Black ink has begun to pool where the pen’s tip is still pressed…