The Blank Page

How many of you struggle with the "blank page”?

I feel like I’m looking at an opponent who’s challenging me, sword extended. My enemy beckons me to find the right words, to somehow manage to pen them in such a way that they make at least some sense, having at minimum a modicum of entertainment value. I accept that invitation to fight every day. Writing’s a part of me, and as much as I’d like to forget about it, and deny it, I can’t get away from it.

Writing is like a lover you can never leave, but get rebuffed from time to time. There’s always something in the back of your mind that tugs at you, trying to force you back into old habits, to keep trying, to never give up, with a feeling never tires or ages.

Maybe my mind’s just too chaotic to try and make sense of what I’m trying to say, because I called writing an “enemy," but now I am going to say it is also my friend. When I have too much to say, and don’t feel like socializing, I have the comfort of the blank page, where I can say whatever I want.

There is a level of acceptance in solitude that I haven’t been able to find anywhere else, where thoughts in my head are like forces of nature, only they are locked away in my head, begging to be released. I am the keeper of the blank page, the place where all these thoughts and words want to be.

Writing is not a person and will never be worth more than one, but the craft is a passion of mine, and I know I can never be happy without it. I believe in a divine hand that is guiding me towards fulfillment, even if I am at a point in life where I feel like either everybody’s laughing at me, or they are ignoring me altogether.

Welcome to my mind, a place full of contradictions and abstract metaphors. One idea jumps right to the next, but for me, for some reason, it all makes perfect, ordered sense.

Imagine a seed, then sticking it in the dirt. At first there’s nothing to be seen . . . then growth appears. That’s what I want. I want to be better. I want to know I’ve improved!

My quality of life is enriched by my goals and desires, both characterized by relentless persistence, all tools I have laid out before the austere deity presiding over the written word, and how its nature is never satisfied, yet is also a gift brimming with love and encouragement.

When the time comes that I breathe my last, I hope I will feel peaceful knowing I spent my time doing things that helped augment me as a person, dismissing any superficial endeavors I abandoned once I knew they’d only come to naught.

Bring it on, blank page. We’re not through just yet.