The problem, it seems to me, is that the blank page, clean slate, empty screen, are all decidedly not places of infinite possibility. They are all invitations for almost inevitable failure and frustration. The open door to write something is, at best, a tease. An initial sense of hope to compose an elegant, complete sentence that only produces a fragment. More generally, it’s the opportunity to slowly drag your already skinned knees up a deteriorating sidewalk in the afternoon sun. Uphill. It’s slow, grueling, and with little evidence of accomplishment. But maybe that’s just me, lying on the sidewalk with bloodied knees, looking skyward to make out the vultures circling as I bake on the concrete below.