The writer who doesn't know what to write

She is sitting at her desk. In front of her, there is a notebook and a pencil. She has to write something now- just something.
Writing, that was her job. She was a writer. She wasn’t very famous or decorated with success, she couldn’t even make a living from her writings. But, somehow she needed writing like other people need oxygen.

Her friends always told her that she was writing the most exciting and most interesting stories in the world. But her critics didn’t agree with that, what they said in their comments was destructive.

She knew that she could write very well, when she was sad. Pain and sorrow were great inspirations; they made turned words into a torrent. But today she isn’t sad. She had been out with her friends on Friday and Saturday night, and she had talked to her mum on the phone for an hour. Now she is nervously sitting at her desk looking out of the window. She is watching the birds flying in the summer sun and trees shaking in the summer breeze. She doesn’t do anything but watch.

This is too much of an idyll for writing, she thinks. The sky looks like a motive for a postcard. But she knows that she has to write something. She has to be productive because her fans expect that from her. She thinks a lot about things she can write about.

What did she do yesterday? She watched TV, then she met some friends and went to a pub. She rejects that idea, nothing profound in it, nothing serious, nothing that laments the errors of this world. She thinks a lot and rejects a lot of ideas. It seems like she does nothing all day long except for sitting restlessly at her desk and rejecting one idea after the other. It’s getting late. But finally she has an idea which doesn’t get rejected by her superego right away. She starts writing:
The writer who doesn’t know what to write.