A prolific writer I am not. When I was younger, I used to write all the time: in my diary, letters to my friends, poetry, short stories. Then in High School, it stopped. It all...just...stopped. The words quit coming and my frustrations began.

I've tried a few things to alleviate the situation. I've doodled on the paper, I've drawn little comic strips to help the words along. Unfortunately, the wall of the "writer's block" would not lift, and I've learned to hate the blinking cursor of my computer screen, mocking me as it blinked infinitely without pause. Even my innocent journal has become my enemy. Everyday I would open it up, a pen poised in my hand, and I would simply get lost in it. At it's blankness.

My creative writing college professor said I should try writing on newspapers. That way I wouldn't write on a blank sheet and be discouraged. Other writers said they write on a strict schedule, the words flowing through routine. I haven't yet breeched word-nirvana, but I am trying through writing my blog. I drink tea as soon as I wake up and I sit in front of my computer, crack a knuckle or two, and prepare to fight for a few sentences. Each is hard won, and the DELETE button is my friend.

Funny how that is: I'd read something a while back preaching against the DELETE button, that it's the worst invention ever. That it aided writer's block. One push at the key and a letter disappears. Or a word. A sentence. Or a book. It makes people prone to erase ideas and hinder progress.

I am hindering my progress. I need to write to be a writer. It's because I'm so afraid that I can't write that I don't. I don't so I can't.

So this morning I drank my tea, I sat in front of the computer and started writing this post. Now it's 1:45 pm, but it's finished. I did it.