Disclaimer: The following story is completely (maybe) fictional (or not). Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental (especially the ones that are on purpose).
James stared at the blinking cursor on the screen, struggling to find his first words. That was always the hardest part of writing anything - the first sentence. After that, it was hard to stop the words, but until he could begin there simply wasn't anything he could do.
He'd had an idea - a journal of sorts, but not his real thoughts. More like a soap opera that was his own life. Why a soap opera? Because he thought it would be funny. Or at least mildly entertaining for him.
But, he realized, he had nothing to write about. Nothing had really happened that summer. Unless people thought it was fun to read pages and pages about some punk playing too many video games and drinking too much coffee, he was out of luck.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, wishing, not for the first time that day, that he was already back down in Auburn. Huntsville used to be home - now it just reminded him of High School. And High School had been a load of crap.
He wasn't sure if it was just his imagination, or if he was legitimately different in the two cities. In Huntsville, he felt on edge and frustrated all the time - even though he had more money now than he had in recent memory. In Auburn, he was dirt poor - but infinitely happier. He was leaving that night - and, if it had been up to him, he wouldn't be coming back.
He had to take classes in Huntsville, though, so he was trapped between the two worlds.
He sighed, and wrote the first words.
Life was meant to be simple, he started, not really sure where he was going with it. As usual, the words came of their own accord. You grow up happy, you go to school, you find a girl, you get a job, you get married, you die old and happy.
But that's never really how it works, is it? I mean, can you imagine what would happen to country music if that was what happened? We'd have, like, two songs. And I guess it's a good thing that it doesn't happen like that all the time. I mean, think about it - who would want to read a story that didn't have any problems in it? If the Lord of the Rings had been about Frodo and Sauron settling their differences over second breakfast, nobody would read it.
If there's no struggle, there's no value in resolution. That's why romances don't start with people getting together. People want to see the process.
It sucks when you're stuck in the middle, though. Especially when it seems like the writer is one of those ridiculously long-winded, painstakingly detailed ones. But I guess everything always seems a lot longer from the character's perspective, right?
He paused, still not sure where he was going. He hadn't written anything in a while - not since he'd finished his last book, really - so it felt good to just sit down and write. It didn't seem to pull itself together like before, though.
He cracked his knuckles, then cursed softly as he noticed the time. He had to go to a two hour Physics lecture tonight - then to lab, then back home to pack, and then he could finally start the trek home. He closed out the document without saving it - he seemed to do that a lot, lately. Nothing felt good enough to save.
Maybe he would write something worth keeping in Physics. But he'd probably just fall asleep.
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