The assignment was to write a short story for class. It was due the next day. It didn’t have to be anything fancy, anything epic, anything, well, anything. It just had to be something.

I sat in front of my computer as soon as I got home. Well, this should be easy, I thought to myself. A short story should be nothing compared to the two, no, three novels I was working on. All at the same time, too.

I sat.
And I sat.
And I sat a bit more.

Hmm…this wasn’t going as well as I thought. My mind was still as blank as the white canvas in front of me, still eagerly waiting for my fingers to dance across the keyboard and paint it with words.

I sat.
And I sat.
And I sat a bit more.

I was frustrated. I was discouraged. How is it possible that I can write three complex novels with complex characters and complex plots? Why was I having trouble creating something…simple?

I sat.
And I sat.
And I sat a bit more.

I was now past frustrated. I was passed discouraged. I was-well, whatever was past those. I was now tempted to write summaries, or overviews, or even continuing something from my complex novels. I wondered if they would notice if I just copied and pasted well-chosen excerpts from my complex novels and hand those in instead.

Still I sat.
And I sat.
And I sat a bit more.

Suddenly, my fingers began to dance. They began to dance with no music, paint with no picture in mind. I awoke from my minds sitting stupor and glanced at the canvas in front of me. What was this?

Words. Sentences. Art. A story.

I congratulated my fingers for doing what my mind could not do. They had written nothing fancy, nothing epic, nothing, well, nothing. But they had indeed written something.