The ability to write a story is nothing short of a super power. I believe I have this ability, but I can’t find it in the expanse of my spacious mind. Maybe I will find it when I’m older, when I’m a teenager, or when I just feel like sitting down for hours on end to write a marvellous novel.
The amount of times I’ve picked up a pen, stared at a blank page waiting for my brain to spill out onto it and put my pen back down again, feeling rather stupid for picking it up, is uncountable. Like today, my brain goes through this process and starts yelling at my hand to pick the pen up again… and then pen down, and then up and then down and then up and then… (you get the idea). To let you into my mind, I really have absolutely no clue or even why I’m writing this.
If you were to jump into my head as a neuron, you would literally see this…
A black hole. All my thoughts whizzing around and then disappearing into it, into the pit of forgetfulness, never to see the light of my not-so amazing mind ever again.
Looking back at the page I’m pretty impressed with my writing, considering I set off writing about…absolutely Nothing.
By Xanthe Gibbs