When I'm sitting at the desk not being able to write line one

Hearken, O seekers of wisdom, to the words of Erica Jong, who confessed with the honesty of one acquainted with both triumph and torment: “When I’m sitting at the desk not being able to write line one, it’s silence and despair! It’s not so easy to put the pen to the legal pad or type the first sentence on the computer screen.” In these words lies a revelation about the sacred and terrifying nature of creation—the chasm between the will to express and the paralysis that often precedes expression. Jong’s lament is not merely about writing; it is about the universal struggle to begin, to act, to summon courage in the face of doubt.

Since the dawn of thought, artists and philosophers alike have faced the same enemy—silence. Before the sculptor lifts his chisel or the writer marks the page, there is a stillness that can feel infinite. In ancient times, poets called upon the Muse, praying for the divine spark to ignite their imagination. The legal pad and the glowing screen that Jong speaks of are modern altars upon which this ancient battle still rages. She gives voice to the agony that precedes creation, the moment when inspiration withholds itself and the mind trembles before the blankness of possibility.

Consider the plight of Hesiod, the ancient Greek poet who stood before the empty wax tablets of his day, waiting for the Muse to whisper the first word of Theogony. Legend says he delayed for days, overcome by uncertainty, fearing that his mortal tongue was unworthy of divine song. Yet when he began—when pen met page—the torrent of poetry flowed, and his name became immortal. So it is with Jong: her confession of despair reveals that even the greatest creators must wrestle with hesitation before their work begins to breathe.

The silence she describes is not merely the absence of sound, but the weight of perfectionism, of expectation, of fear. In that silence dwells the doubt that asks, “What if my words are unworthy? What if my thoughts are hollow?” And yet, every act of creation is an act of defiance against that silence. Jong’s struggle mirrors that of every person who has ever sought to build something from nothing—whether a poem, a law, a city, or a life. The first sentence is the threshold, the crossing from hesitation to being.

In truth, the despair Jong names is a necessary companion to the artist’s life. It is the crucible that tests one’s faith in the creative spirit. The ancients knew this too: Aeschylus wrote that “we must suffer into truth.” The struggle to begin, the torment of the blank page, refines the soul. It humbles the ego and transforms vanity into sincerity. For out of despair, one learns endurance; and out of endurance, the first line finally emerges—fragile, yet alive.

From Jong’s reflection arises a lesson for all who seek to create or achieve. Courage is not the absence of fear, but the act of writing the first word despite it. Whether your canvas is a legal pad or the landscape of your life, beginnings will always be difficult. Yet the only way to banish the silence is through motion—through the humble, imperfect act of starting. The pen, once lifted, becomes a sword against despair.

O seekers of wisdom, let this truth be your companion: do not wait for the perfect beginning. The Muse comes not to those who linger in doubt, but to those who move their hand. Begin, even in uncertainty. Write your first line, take your first step, speak your first truth. In doing so, you will transform silence into song, despair into creation, and hesitation into the eternal rhythm of human progress.

Take this teaching into your daily life: when the blank page of existence confronts you, do not shrink away. The fear of beginning is the guardian of all meaningful work. Face it, endure it, and begin—no matter how small the act. For in the first line lies the seed of the infinite. Thus spoke Erica Jong, echoing the wisdom of the ancients: to create is to conquer silence.