Oh the hope of the blank page. It blinks before you, serene and white. Waiting to be covered with words. Oh the tyranny of the blank page. It hovers before you, bland and white. Demanding to be covered with words.
Oh the despair of the deadline. Never can your brain be so absolute empty and vacant as when you have a deadline.
Remember how when you were a kid, and you stood on the side of the swimming pool and the longer you looked at the water, the colder it got? You knew you must just jump right in and endure the quick flash of agony that was to come. Then, suddenly the water would be warm and you'd be having a great time, as long as some snapperdog didn't jump on your head? But despite knowing all this, still you just stood and stared and the water became like ice?
A blank page is just about the same. The more you stare at it, the blanker it gets, so blank that surely your pitiful little scratches could never make the slightest bit of impression. You know somewhere in your heart that if you just throw yourself at the blank page, it will give way, tear like tissue and you'll be on the other side, where the party is. But somehow the monolithic ominous blankness of the page keeps you rooted into place.
Which is a long elaborate way of saying that I am stuck in writer's block. With a deadline and no great ideas. And it's a sucky place to be: Blank Page Limbo.