There’s the canvas in front of you, laughing, almost mocking you; tempting, asking, pleading, daring you to write something. It’s inviting you to build it from the ground up into a work of art; a concoction of the English jargon. You start with the core fundamentals of the language: grammar, spelling, word choice, flow between paragraphs and sentence structure. Then add the flavor; the sacred triumvirate-logos, pathos, and ethos, tone, rhetoric, allusion, syntax, symbols, semantics and so forth, depending on what you’re going for. You might even just add a pinch of humor with a pun or two. Maybe even add a little bit of spice with your own style of writing, perhaps some dialogue or tone?
The key is getting started while writer’s block is in full effect. You need to fill five pages, double spaced with a works cited list twenty-four hours from now. You’re f***ed. Why did you wait so long to start? Dumba**. Regardless, you’re going to produce something. Hopefully it doesn’t resemble a rank pile of s*** when you’re done. You imagine yourself shoving your hand down your throat in a bulimic effort to puke a rancid bile brew, mixed with hunks of letters, strands of words and thoughts, wreaking of genius thoughts.


Anything will do at this point.