It’s odd how terrifying a blank page can be. A white wall that can stop you dead in your tracks. Your head can be full of ideas, of subjects whirling and busting to get out and yet, when confronted with the blank page they may refuse to come out to play. They just lay down and play dead.
Abandoned and bereft you sit, paralyzed. Fingers frozen. Disconnected from the brilliant internal discourse that was flowing right up until the whiteness of the page dazzled you. Frustration builds into a sense of being cheated. You close the lid on your laptop with a snap and step away from the desk.
Or. You plough on through. You scrawl a little graffitti on the white wall. It doesn’t look so scary now. You can’t quite take it so seriously. You indulge in a little literary doodling. See where it takes you. Slowly your self-consciousness recedes. Your shoulders drop. Your breath deepens in your diaphragm. Your fingers start to dance faster over the keyboard. The words are tripping out and falling neatly into sentences that hold perfectly formed ideas.
The thoughts that were stewing in a subconscious soup now crystallize satisfyingly on the page. You have found your way in. Writing feels the easiest, most natural thing in the world.
The page fills.