I sat at the keyboard, motionless. There was only so much time in that position, wrists arched and fingers clawed, before the familiar heat of tendinitis began to lick at my wrists. There was maybe a decade, maybe less, left of useful typing to me. It had been my intention to write and make the most of it.
But instead, nothing. Good for my wrists in the short term, I suppose, but that was about it.
“What’s the holdup?” I asked the couch behind me. I imagined a personification of some sort of creativity perched there, lounging. But it could only parrot my own words back at me.
“What’s the holdup?”
“It’s been a hell of a time,” I said. “Here I am, a white dude, and I want to write something that doesn’t fall into the pitfalls of the past. Something that is entertaining but woke, with a message for those who look for it. But it just won’t work.”
“It just won’t work?”
“Well, your firth thought it to make a protagonist that’s from an underrepresented group. But then who am I, a white cis het dude, to write that, especially if it’s at the expense of someone else? It’s paralyzing to think of all the ways I can do evil.”
What seemed like a thoughtful silence was my next answer.
“Maybe you’re right,” I sighed. “Maybe the solution, for now, is to just write about nothing. Write about writing even as it grinds my finger bones to dust.”
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