That Blinking Cursor

It haunts me. Every time I write I feel it mocking me relentlessly like a finger pointing to my face. He says (Yes, THE cursor is a guy), "And you call yourself a writer." To which I say, "No, I don't. People just give me things to write, but I really don't consider myself a writer."

"Then you're a sham. You just got lucky again." he says.

"Yes," I say, "again and again and again."

I have this conversation with that cursor almost everyday. Somehow I manage to block him out by surfing aimlessly on the internet or drowning him out music. Then the idea suddenly forms in my head just quickly as the first pangs of hunger. The hunger gnaws at me as a type or write furiously to get the ephemeral thoughts out there. The physical manifestation of my idea.

I tell that cursor, "Are you happy? I'm starting to get it done." To which it smirks, "Are you really?"

He torments me, I tell you. Always the wise ass. 

After hours of writing and re-writing, I finally come up with a piece that works. A not-too-shabby job of getting my point across in a relatively creative manner, I hear him say, "Do they really pay you for this s***? Wow, I wonder how you get to sleep at night."

"As if I earn so much from it," I think to myself, "Will I ever make enough money to see a shrink and to make you shut up?"

Ah, the voices in my head. How I love their company.

Your mad-as-a-hatter maid,
Ladida Lola