I have nothing interesting to say. 

A cursor blinks. A bus passes by. My Twitter feed updates.

I peaked in third grade, when I wrote, illustrated, and self published (read: laminated) my own book. It was called "Different Families," about a girl who finds a new family to live with after her mother makes her eat —gasp—yogurt.

I already peaked. Why do I even try?

It's like I'm on the first episode of American Idol. “But my friends say I’m a great writer,” I protest to Simon Cowell as he laughs in my face. 

I was never a good writer.

And then the coffee kicks in. 

My fingers find their rhythm on the keyboard.

The tabs spill across my screen; essay submission guidelines and a google search how to write a novel. Inspirational essays from writers I love. A bathing suit from J. Crew. 

I have so much to say.

The world needs to hear my take on the election. On Janelle Monae’s Oscar gown. On the bomb threats at the JCC. 

It’s time to revitalize my blog. I’ll change the focus, write more about politics. Or lipstick. Or music. 

(First let me buy the bathing suit so I can get rid of that tab.)

Should I write about bathing suits? A roundup of cute ones, the woes of buying one after having a baby? It’s not really my niche. What is my niche?

New tab: how to find your niche. 

A blank page fills, line by line. It’s bad, but it’s something. I’ll polish it later.

Then, like a pin in the balloon of creativity, a wail.

Mama. Open the door!  

The creative part of my brain packs up. See you when I see you, it whispers, slipping out. 

I have nothing interesting to say.