I sit, alone in my room, tapping my pen against the 5 ring notebook. Outside, through my window opened as wide as possible, i can hear the crickets singing lullabies to all those who can sleep. Lights from across the street cut through the darkness,eliminating the possibility of stars. The air smells like dew, a fresh day is coming. But I can think of nothing but that paper and that pen, and the scratching sound these 2 should be making, one of my favorite sounds in the world, because it means that I have an idea.
I have always wanted to write, stories of times long ago, or not yet to have happened. To have the ability to create a character, even a whole world, astounds me. But no matter how hard I think, or tap my pen, stare down at the pale page with its blue veins, no inspiration comes. Nothing. So I give up. I turn off the light, and hope that my dreams will bring some real inspiration at last.