Empty spaces

I wrote this freshman year of college. Now that I look back on it it's not half bad. Back then, nothing made sense, everything was new, and I lived in the moment, which made for some pretty interesting writing.

You stare at a screen for words to come. The backspace key becomes your best friend as the minutes tick away. Nothing seems to be perfect for you. An idea is like a worm you try to put on a hook to use as bait for fish. When you think you got it, its grasped firmly between your thumb and index finger it somehow squirms away. Where does my story start? Perhaps the better question is where does it end.