Sometimes this blank screen is too much to take. Sip of wine, maybe the words will flow. I want to bathe in words, to soak in inspiration long enough to write it down. From adjectives to adverbs, nouns to verbs, there are infinite ways to tell the story. Then, why is it so difficult sometimes?
Because we don't always hear the words as they come and go. The trick is to catch them, mid-flight and put them to work, but recognizing the good, helpful ones isn't always so easy. The wine helps, sometimes. Just as when you're learning a foreign language—a drink or two, and you're suddenly fluent. A matter of perception.
There's always a story, locked up deep inside, or lying in wait on the surface. Stories, stories everywhere—but am I listening? Every moment is a potential plot, every person a character to be developed, every detail important in some way.
I like to think back to other times when I wanted to tell a story, but couldn't find the words. What did I do, how did I handle it? The act of writing whatever comes to mind is sometimes enough. Other times, I write in a poetic format, snippets of thought, related or not. These ramblings are fun to read later because they often make no sense at all, but there's usually a good deal of emotion behind them.
Still other times, I run the other way and do something else--a strategy that is far too easy to employ. I'm working on that, because when I'm running from a blank page, I'm probably running from other things in life.
There. That's better. Write, and you'll feel like writing.