A writer had nothing to write about so he decided to write about writing about having nothing to write about. The first thing he wrote about was how he had nothing to write about, which didn't make for great writing, because it wasn't really about anything... you know, seeing as he didn't have anything to write. But he wrote nevertheless, and he found himself in the peculiar position of having written something that was about writing nothing. He was, by then, almost three minutes into the writing, about 87 words long in fact, and yet with very little to commend itself to the reader save its heretofore mentioned peculiarity of having expressed an expression of having nothing to express.
It seemed a worthy endeavor. After all, he was a writer, and nothing could be more natural than that a writer keep writing no matter what, even when there was nothing to write about. Come to think of it, he thought, there often isn't anything to write about. How many times had he sat there looking at a blank page trying to think of something to write? Well enough of that, he thought. Why not just write about the experience of having nothing to write about? And so he did, and he wrote it all out, by then 220 words into his piece, and writing like there was no stopping him.
He was amazed at how much there was to write when there was nothing to write about. His fingers were a blur all over that keyboard, typing like he had something very important to say. He'd never typed like this before when he'd had some kind of story or plot or idea in mind, something he felt needed expressing. And yet here he was with nothing to say, and still saying nothing, and yet he'd never found writing so easy, so effortless, so prolific as this. It was like a revelation to him, he thought, that writing was best undertaken when one had nothing to say. Extraordinary! And there he was, 344 words in with nothing to say.
But now he realized he actually had said something. This was peculiar, he thought. Actually he corrected himself and thought instead he would "muse" from now on, as writers tend to "muse". So he mused that just 389 words in, he'd found something to say, and had in fact said it. That was of course that "writers write best when they've nothing to say". There, he'd said something. He'd said something when he'd started with nothing. It was as if it wasn't really he who had something to say but the writing itself -- the act of writing. He thought of all those times he sat there as a "writer" waiting for ideas, inspirations, epiphanies, memories and occasions, yet not actually writing. So he realized then that there really was no excuse for not writing, because the writing spoke for him anyway, and as long as he was willing to let the fingers connect with the keys, there would always be something to say, because a writer is never a writer unless the writer is writing.
