EDITOR’S NOTE: Today’s contribution comes from special guest Gillian Neff, who is some sort of big muckety-muck editor for some fancy-pants cancer research journal. Her red pen is fearsome indeed! Thank you so much, Gillian.

People who know me are always surprised that I don’t write fiction. I read fiction constantly. I’m a relatively creative person, and I am absolutely fascinated with words and lingual history (I am obsessed enough that I have occasionally considered getting the first few lines of the Beowulf Manuscript tattooed on me). A good turn of phrase, whether written or spoken, is enough to give someone my life-long admiration, and I consider written wit as high an art as a Giotto fresco. I know my grammar rules and have a good feel for the flow of language. I have done plenty of editing, and I flatter myself that I’m fairly good at it, based on the number of my friends/coworkers who have turned to me for help on numerous occasions.

Yet I, myself, do not write.

Certain teachers and friends of mine, particularly our Esteemed Host, have attempted to rectify this by inspiring me with kind words and advice. Several times I have sat down in front of the computer and started putting down words. Sometimes the words came easily, and sometimes it felt more like trying to convince a cat to take a shower – futile and sort of bloody. But in either case, I discovered the same thing.

I have absolutely nothing to say.

I am utterly, completely, and 100% devoid of inspiration. Sometimes I’ll get short scenes in my head that I like, or snatches of sentences. However, it’s never enough to craft into anything so long as even a one-page story. And if I try to massage it into a longer form, I find that it feels trite and contrived.

This is a point of much frustration to me. Despite being a person of an otherwise creative nature, it’s like there’s a black hole in my brain where plot would come from. I’ve tried brainstorming exercises and role-playing, I’ve tried just writing and seeing where it goes, I’ve tried expanding on my germs of words and ideas, but still — nothing that hasn’t been done a billion times previously leaps to the fore. Yes, I know the old saw about there being only 100 plots or somesuch, but some people are able to take those same plots and graft their own, new ideas over the old, synthesizing them into something new and interesting people would actually care to read. I missed that gene, or that training, or whatever it is that gives you that ability.

I know writing is pretty much always a painful process, so I suppose my point in this little public blood-letting is tell those of you who DO have ideas to go with it, despite the pain. Let the ideas fill you and inspire you and drive you. Run with those little plots and themes as far and fast as you can. Writing really is a gift, and it deserves free reign. So go, write your little hearts out, and I’ll just wait here with my red pen for when you’re done.