Blinking Cursor

It's the bane of existence to any writer: The Blinking Cursor. It's somehow work than the blank page ever was, I'm not sure why. It's insistency, perhaps? Blink blink, blink blink. Write something, write something.

I want to write something. Anything. I've been dabbling lately. I refreshed my freelance writing search, sending out queries to things that sound fun to me: Commercial scripts, chinese horoscope writer, personal letter writer. Things probably that don't seem "legitimate" in the eyes of other writers but I know I would enjoy. I don't want to write Pharmaceutical copy, or articles for a business magazine. I know even if I got gigs like that I would quit them in a second.

I opened up an old thumb drive the other day, looking for some pictures, and stumbled on a short story I'd started. It was about a woman who lived with her husband and three children in a house by the Hudson river. Because of it's location, dead bodies regularly floated up on to their banks. There was a back story there, something about her brother dying, but I can't remember it now. I've been looking at it for days wondering if I can recover it somehow.

I enjoyed reading it back after all this time. It was almost as though it had been written by somebody else. The names were lovely. Marlene, Gus, Bowen. Where the hell was I going with that story? I want to find out what happens to them.

I feel like I am about to get all existential here. I want to say something about how the blinking cursor is a metaphor for me and how I want to know what happens to my characters, but the rest is still unwritten. I want to wax poetic about it, but I'm not going to.

Instead, I am going to go to sleep. Husband is entertaining a friend visiting us all the way from Australia and the house is quiet, save the downstairs neighbors watching a movie in their bedroom.

Blink blink, blink blink, blink blink.

It's hypnotizing. My eyes slowly drift to sleep.