If you have nothing to write about, you can always write about writing. You can always write about the shadow made by the pen point as it cuts through the softer shadows made by your hair as it hangs in wisps across the white page, while the sun sneaks in over your right shoulder and the impossibly quiet room is jarred by the insistent tapping of the pen, like tiny footprints of thought, galloping aimlessly through a forest of words, looking to be found.
I do not necessarily need to know what I’m writing about as I lift the pen and point it fiercely in no particular direction. Sometimes, as though unguided, the pen tip slices into a crust of words that hangs suspended and sometimes, it scratches and tears away at meaning just to see what falls loose. Crumbs may scatter, big sloppy messes that must be quickly mopped away. Sometimes the pen hits a hard shell of thought that will not be pierced, forever to remain undiscovered. Just keep the pen moving, keep the pen moving and who knows what form and shape might break free, might hold, might want to be held on to.
That is the way of words, they arrive uninvited. They can arrive breathless exactly at the wrong time, when there is no pen or paper to capture them. They can arrive giddy, frightened, sure-footed, tentative, raucous and mighty.
Put the pen down. For a moment. Leave the words alone. Allow them to drop, form loose ribbons of sound. Leave them alone and listen. If you are lucky they will breath. They will rise. They will fall. They will be fine with or without you.