You sit and stare at a blank sheet. You wrack your mind. You look within. You do this for hours. Yet the page remains blank, because your mind regurgitates nothing but senseless clichés and empty platitudes.
The next day you get up believing that this day will – must, be different. But, it isn’t. Nor is the day after, nor the day after that.
How could this be? Your first novel was well received. You avoided the sophomore curse with a second that was a best seller. You wrote a compilation of short stories. Your future was bright.
Then, without warning, nothing – not a single idea takes form in your mind.
You ponder the consequences. Without ideas, there are no stories. Without stories, there is no writing. Without writing, a writer’s life – your life, becomes meaningless.