The Spectre of the Blank Computer Screen

It used to be the haunting white paper on the desk, waiting for the mark of a pen. Then it was the sheet rolled into the old Underwood typewriter. Some people advanced to the Selectric, and although I went straight to the computer, the blank "paper" still haunts me.

I scan through my mental Rolodex of ideas and experiences, but none seem worthy of fiction. I seach for an image--something I've seen--or a sound or a phrase--something that's landed on my ear--but the cream is not rising to the top.

Looking for inspiration, I pick up a YA novel from the pile of YA novels on my desk. Rebel Glory, by Sigmund Brouwer. I read the first three chapters. They're short. At the end of chapter 3, I'm still only on page 13. I'm trying to read like a reader who is a writer and notice things a writer might notice.

It's written in the first person. The narrator is Brian McPhee, a 17-year-old junior hockey player. Chapter 1 gives a description of an incident (I don't want to give it away!) at a hockey game. I notice a couple of great similes. The hockey coach, who "has a face that looks like it was carved from the side of a mountain" (7) lambastes his players, telling them they are "skating like ballerinas" (6). Brian describes his English teacher: "Mr. Palmer's eyes bulged out like a constipated frog's" (12).

This is off to a lively start. Okay, I'm inspired.

Now that I'm in the writing groove, I'd better get on to the real writing--an Assignment of Great Importance. Four pages of fiction. Double-spaced. That's about 1,200 words.

Breathe deep . . . write "one true sentence."