Sometimes, like today, I stare into a blank, white, sheet of paper. And I just start. Because I couldn’t think of anything. Even now, even on this line, I can’t think of ANYTHING. And I keep writing. There are, after all, so many reasons to not write. Fear is a big reason. “What will they think?” Research is another reason to not write. “I’ll just read a bit more about the topic, then I’ll start.” I’d rather peoplewatch. I’d rather surf my iTunes library. I’d rather swipe Instagram. I like the post I wrote this week on Paulosophia — maybe I’ll read that, again. My pen still moves. I haven’t stopped. Even though I had nothing to write.