Untitled By MJ Brault An essay of the difficulty of writing fanfiction. Today, I was saying to myself: Marianne you should really work on your fanfic. You *know* it’s due today if you want it to be posted on Outpost Daria tonight. So I did. I was alone at home with a cold. I sat at the computer. I put music really loud. But why the hell did I feel the urge of taking a shower, putting my makeup on, calling my friend even if I knew she wasn’t at home and doing a new message on my mom’s answering machine. I wrote one paragraph or two. Then, my friend called. We talked for a while. Then I went out biking, took two tylenols, cleaned my room and changing the side of the cassette. I said to myself: Gee, it’s already one fifty! So I ate, washed the dishes, put the laudry in the washing machine and *finally* sat back at my computer. I wrote another paragraph. And then I remembered that I must watch the end of the movie I rented (I don’t know if it’s a word. My past irregular verbs are crappy) last night. So I watched it. I cried a bit cuz it was a sad movie. I wrote *half a page*!!!!!! Then, the phone rang. I answered. It was for my mom (she works half time at the LLLI) I took the message. I already was in the kitchen, so I cleaned it a bit. All to avoid the fact of sitting in front of a blank page. The e-mail little thingie made a funny noise. My cousin e-mailed me. Alexis wanted to tell me all the things he did in his grade 2 class this week and if my brother had an e-mail address. I e-mailed him back. I said that my brother *had* an e-mail address and I gave it to him. I went to the bathroom, put the clothes in the dryer, put my red shirt on the door of the shower cuz it doesn’t go in the dryer (I never remember that usually!) and put my bike back in the garage. I came back, sat at the computer and wrote 2 lines. Then the phone rang again. That was Laura. She wanted to tell me that she was at her mom’s office so we could chat together. I said yes. We did. I wrote a little. At the end of the day, my fanfic had one page more and I’m still there, writing an essay about the difficulty for a writer to sit in front of a blank page, so much that he or she will do everything he/she could to avoid it (Me anyway) The blank-page phobia is really common for the writers. I remember *reading the dictionnary* for 30 minutes instead of doing my schoolwork when I was younger. Maybe some of them aren't affected. In this case, I would like to know how they do. The only thing that works for me is tying myself to my chair! :-) There I am. Death on the Nile is looking at me. I could almost hear the damn book talking. "I'm due for Monday, maybe you could read me instead of writing." I can hear the computer talking at me. "C'mon, maybe that site updated in the 2 hours you didn't go!" I think I'm crazy.