I’ve been trying to write this for just about an hour.

I’ve found that I possess the epitome of a writer’s demise…an overwhelming lack of inspiration.

I initially tried to write about my love life, what it’s felt like for me to fall in love as a girl, and then as a woman. I tried to write about how I am overwhelmingly in love at the moment, so much so that it makes me sick sometimes. But who wants to hear about that? The cliches would pile up until they caved in on themselves. I mean, yuck. Keep it to yourself.

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Then, I tried to write about how, for the first time since I left for college, I’ve actually felt homesick. Like a kid yearning for their blanket. I’ve been exhausted and burnt out from school, and I’ve missed my mom. The excitement I felt about being independent has turned into a loathing of the responsibility that comes with being a student, a worker, a daughter, a friend, a girlfriend, and a person. Small things make me dig my fingernails into my palms. Small things make me want to lock myself in my room, turn the lights off, and cry. But, to paraphrase my mother, boo-fucking-hoo, your life isn’t hard. It’s not that deep, and no one cares.

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Then, I tried to write about the things I’m wishing for myself in the future. Long story short, I want to be successful. That’s literally it. I want to have success in school (good grades), success in my job (writing good pieces and building my portfolio), success in my relationships (maintaining my friendships, being an involved daughter, making my boyfriend happy), success in my character (being the best person I can, being kind, being knowledgeable, being humble, being active, being understanding). I actually thought I was going to write an entire blog post…just to say that. Bo-ring. Summarizing is an insanely underrated skill, and one I need to take more advantage of.

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Then I wanted to write about the things I wish I’d been told when I got to college. The marketer in me, the manager in me, the realist, said wait. You haven’t even finished your freshman year. How is anyone going to trust what you say about college…when you’ve barely even been in college. And, most of the stuff you “wish people had told you”, they did tell you. You just didn’t listen. I might write that one later. But for now, let’s write about stuff we actually know about.

Select all. Delete.

And now I’m here. Writing about not knowing what to write. My fingers are calloused from the keys of my laptop. All I do is write. I write about people, and I write about books, and I write about articles, and I write about history, and I write about classes, and I write about art, and I write about myself. I love writing still. But sometimes I can’t even open Word.

When I was a kid, I used to write fantasy stories. I wanted to write a book about dragons and faraway lands. I still have some of the maps I drew and the words I scribbled about a little orphan girl going into a cave, only to find a green creature keeling in a corner. They bond over being outsiders and become besties. “I’ll name you Emeralda,” the girl says. So creative.

When I was in middle school, all I did was take notes. I perfected my note-taking process and enjoyed the hell out of it. Once, I talked back to my teacher and she made me write a sentence (something along the lines of “I will not talk back to my teacher and I will be quiet during class.”) 200 times. It took me all weekend. My hand cramped and the bump on the knuckle of my ring finger grew. I scratched at my paper with my pen mindlessly for hours. I loved it.

In high school, I fell in love with argumentative and synthesis essays. Picking a side, compiling information, and plopping it onto my page with the perfect balance of research credibility and sarcastic commentary. High school is also where I fell in love with journalism, where I fell in love with writing stories in a different way. Highlighting voices. Writing about the people around me. Writing for the people around me.

Now, in college, I’m pursuing a major in Journalism and an Honors diploma. All I do is write. I write about people, and I write about books, and I write about articles, and I write about history, and I write about classes, and I write about art, and I write about myself. I’ve chosen this path for myself, and I love it still. But sometimes I wonder if I’m cut out for this.

Yet, even when imposter syndrome and self-doubt creep into my daily routine, I know there is nothing I’d rather do than write. My friends are doing chemistry labs, and all-nighters in their studios; they’re taking classes about statistical research methods, and doing computer science and math. I like to ask them about what they’re working on. I usually regret asking. I can’t do what they’re doing. Or at least, I don’t want to.

Everyone can write. But not everyone can write. Not everyone can express themselves in that way. Not everyone wants to. But I do. I really do. When I’m feeling uninspired, when I write four different blog posts and delete them all, I still find something in me that wants to write. I still find comfort in the keys that give me blisters. I still find relief in putting my thoughts on a page, even if they’re yuck, even if they’re boring, and even if it’s not that deep.

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