The cursor blinked at her repeatedly, somewhat accusingly she thought. It was mocking her inability to write. Even after she randomly bashed the keyboard, resulting in repetition of the letters ‘h’, ‘j’ and ‘n’ the cursor still winked rhythmically, as if in on the secret. Each relentless flash was like a foghorn, screaming to her that she was incapable of the task and that she should surrender to defeat before she had even begun. It was probably true. She didn’t have the steady determination or talent to write anything of value. But she couldn’t just give up; she felt she had to at least try. Otherwise what was the point?
So, it was decided. Every day she carved out some time to dedicate to writing the story that had been created in her head. Some days she spent hours capturing the nuance of a character’s every word. On occasion she struggled to write anything at all. But the pages built up, the characters developed and a representation of her imagination was soon impressed onto the page. She discovered that the cursor continued its firm, methodical blinking whether she wrote a thousand words or failed to touch the keyboard at all. It was just a black line that appeared and disappeared regularly and after a while it held no mystery that could threaten her desires; she was a writer and she was writing.