If you have nothing to write about, you can always write about writing.
You can always write about the pen’s shadow across the page, as the sun pours through the window, over your left shoulder, illuminating everything all at once.
You can always write about the quiet room, silence punctuated by fingertips of other writers who tap tap tiny footprints that gallop wildly through forests of words. You stop your own tap tapping and listen.
I barely know what I’m going to write about when I first lift the pen. I watch the pen tip forward, unguided, watch it begin to slice into thick crusts of words, scratching at meaning just to see what falls loose. Crumbs scatter, big sloppy messes that must be mopped away. Sometimes the words smash into a hard shell of thought that refuses to be pierced. Sometimes they dissolve into nothing.
Still, you have to keep the pen moving, keep the pen moving, and who knows what form and shape might break free, might take hold, might want to be held.
That is the way with words. They show up uninvited. They show up breathless at the wrong time, when there is no pen or paper to capture them. They show up giddy, frightened, sure-footed, tentative, raucous. They show up and settle in as though they’ve always been there.