I am currently completely stuck.

Probably good writers, or writers at all, aren’t supposed to admit this, but I am truly at a loss for what to write about. Or maybe it’s one of those reverse things where writers are actually supposed to admit they have writer’s block because it makes them more real and relatable. This could also be wishful thinking on my part.

I initially tried garnering ideas by writing about the first thing that came to my mind. This failed because I first thought of goldfish, since there is a pack sitting next to me, and I couldn’t think of anything really to say about them besides how great they are, to put it in simple terms. A lot of people would probably counter that I could in fact write about how great they are, but some loves are difficult to put into words.

Then, I tried seeking help in a mildly aggressive, but what I saw appropriate, manner. I threw myself against my kitchen counter in exasperation, demanding an idea of any kind from anyone who was listening. No one in my family was, and if they were they did a nice job pretending they weren’t.

Finally, as a last resort, I sought guidance for my go-to wisdom-provider: Google. Having apparently utilized every creative bone in my body, I ultimately deemed this a completely acceptable move and proceeded to type “Article ideas” into the search bar. The first article to pop up had 1 million ideas in the title, which proved too overwhelming for me to even attempt looking at idea #1.

Now, besides being stuck on what to write, I find myself annoyed at myself for not knowing what to write after reading over the three strategies I employed above, as I have now written several paragraphs about not being able to write anything.

There is so much around us, so many things and people and experiences, begging to be immortalized onto a digital screen so they do not just sit there, exempt from attention and focus. I am too aware of the ignorance that holds the hand of believing there is nothing to write about, because even the most mundane thing is at least something. Yet I grapple with letting my surroundings etch something permanent in me that gives me the drive to do something with it- to write about it. In effect, anyone can make the irrelevant relevant; the bag of goldfish could be the spark for a perfectly good piece of writing- because good writing is not equivalent to good or typical topic- but it has literally just occurred to me as I write this that my desire to write about things I consider deep and meaningful often overrides my ability to make something out of nothing.

I really was going to start on an actual idea, but I think I’ve written enough of nothing to suffice an article.