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There should never be nothing to write about.

And yet, sometimes when you open up Microsoft Word and click on a blank document and gingerly set your fingers on the tips of the keys, with all the ideas and feelings and thoughts in the world, you just…pause.

The page is so empty.

This should be a good thing. It means infinite room for expression, for sharing, for creation.

But instead, you look at the emptiness and imagine it reflecting off the page and into your mind, and all of a sudden, all those ideas and feelings and thoughts just…disappear. Well, not really; they can’t have disappeared. But somehow you still can’t find them, as if they've all just run away and hidden themselves behind locked doors in the dusty corridors of your mind, and you don’t have the willpower to start peering down those dimly lit halls just now.

So you sit. You stare at your computer screen, intensely at first, daring it into submission. You wait in ambivalence for your fingers to start moving. A sentence would be great. Or a word. Just one…

You tilt back your chair and curse yourself for not being able to complete this, the most basic of tasks. Anyone—quite literally anyone—could do it. Just write, you urge your fingers. But they ignore the command, resting purposefully and defiantly on their respective keys. You can almost sense their triumphant thrill at rebelling. You sigh. Let them have their fun.

Soon the white backdrop on your screen becomes a bit blinding, so you turn your attention to the window. The wind and the sun are working in harmony for once, and people are out and about—laughing, discussing politics, shouting names, standing upright—and all of a sudden it’s undeniably distracting. Maybe you should be outside. Take a little break, unlock some hidden ideas.

You take a deep breath. No. You can do this. You can do this now.

You turn back to the screen and do a double-take. It’s no longer empty. You squint and lean in closer. Yes! Right there at the top of the page, there is unmistakably some sort of writing. It’s unintelligible, just a long string of mismatched letters, but it’s there nonetheless. You must have started tapping your fingers without realizing it.

Huh. Is it that simple to combat blankness?

You think about what you might be doing later, about joining those loud, beautiful people outside. You think about trees and accents and climate change and love and life and Russian tea cookies and how many wonderful talents make up the human race.

Then you smile, ever so slightly, and begin to write.