i have no idea what to write about

I have writer's block right now.

I've been staring at this screen for an hour, searching on Google "what to write about when you don't know what you want to write about" 11 times.

Frankly, I don't really want to write this article. I want to write the next one because it'll be the 50th post on this site. Nearly 30,000 words live here. Are all 30,000 the same 30,000 I'd write again? Definitely not. Nevertheless, how can I not be proud of writing that much in the first place?

I could decide to half-ass this post – write about something that doesn't matter to me at all, that I'll probably never think about ever again. Maybe, in that way, the 50th can shine even brighter.

It's like this article is the last undercard for the main event. People just want to see Mike Tyson or Mayweather. What I also realize now is that I'm building up hype for the 50th post, just like all those boxers and producers with their fake beef and staged videos – but you never really know how the fight's going to go.

Maybe it'll be worse than the undercards. Maybe Mayweather catches a stray elbow in the first round, gets a cut under his eye, and the refs have to call the match off. Maybe the fight goes through all 12 rounds, but only 5% of the punches actually land and it ends in a draw. Of course, I want the 50th post to be amazing. I want it to have the best idea, the finest writing, and a conclusion so mind-blowing that it sends you some money for the ER when you stop breathing.

I know most people don't care. Most won't even know it's the 50th unless I put it in the title or unless

they've read this. But it's the same feeling as performing at a violin recital as a kid. You're perhaps the 9th person assigned to go on stage, yet you barely even listen to the eight people before you. You're too busy looking at your music, memorizing the "hard part" last minute. Maybe the boy before you had a memory slip, or his E string snapped, or he accidentally played behind the bridge, emitting a squeaking note that pierced over the piano, but you didn't even notice. And even if you did, you still clapped for him anyway.

I think, even if you're experienced, even if you're like my brother who's been playing violin all his life and attends Northwestern studying violin performance and economics, even if you're Joshua Bell, Hilary Hahn, or Heifetz, you'll never get rid of that burning sensation in your chest before you play that first note.

That's not to say that I'm experienced – because I'm not. I'm no Hemingway, Orwell, or Delillo. But, maybe, even when they published something for the hundredth time, they all felt at least a little doubt.

Perhaps that's what makes us human – to be able to doubt, to be able to hesitate in our actions, to have the comfort of knowing we can always pick our poison.

Perhaps I should be grateful for the writer's block.