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busyTonight I have to write five pages of my WIP as well as a blog. Normally I find ideas for blogs everywhere. I love people, so I am on Twitter, Facebook and email loops, always looking for tidbits of information. In fact, that’s where I heard about LiveJournal, on one of those email loops.
So tonight I went looking for inspiration. Anyone who knows me knows that I can talk about just about anything for as long as necessary. I just need a kernel of an idea—just a smidgen—to get going. But tonight…no dice. Nothing jumped out at me from any of my usual sources. So here I am, just me and the blank page.
Again.
I don’t know if non-writer people understand how tricky it is to create something out of nothing. I mean, all writers start out with little more than just a hint of imagination. And somehow, they take that tiny thought and create an entire book from it. They take something intangible and create something tangible that exists in the physical world. Like childbirth.
But to perform this miracle (writing, not childbirth. You don’t need advice from me on that one!) we need somewhere to start. And sometimes, even that eludes us. We know that we want to write, but we’re not sure what or about whom. So we stare at the blank page on the computer, at that little curser dancing its dance.
Laughing at us.
I’m sure the mockery of this little blinking virtual line is all in my imagination—just like the evil laughter I swear I hear as it flashes at me.
But we are writers. We can conquer the blank page. Isn’t white space supposed to be a good thing? (Oh wait, that’s in between dialogue. Darn it!)
So I stare at the blankness of this page before me—stark white except for the ever present blinking Curser of Ridicule. You know, if it’s going to be flashing at me anyway, you’d think it could help out, pop a word or two on the page. Give me a head start. But no. It is merciless, just like the bleak emptiness of the page.
I know this won’t last forever. I have to believe that, or else no books will ever get written. Nora Roberts once said something to the effect that she could fix a bad page, but not a blank one. Amen, sister. Now if I could only write something, even a bad page…
So who will win this battle? Me, or the empty screen? My muse seems to have slipped out for a drink or something—maybe a vacation in Bermuda. Cuz she sure as shootin’ isn’t here waving her magic wand or doing her dance or whatever it is she does to get the words flowing. We writers count on our muses. They’re our wingmen.
But apparently I’m on my own here. No muse riding to the rescue. No flashes of brilliance striking from the sky. Just me, the keyboard, and the blank page. As usual.
And let’s not forget the little mocking, flashing curser. Go ahead, it seems to say to me. Do it. Write something. I dare you.
Well guess what, Mr. Blinky? While you were flashing at me, doing your neener-neener act, I have written 500 words.
Strange, isn’t it, how the blank page loses its power when it’s not so blank anymore? And the curser—my personal gadfly when it’s sitting in the middle of all the blankness—suddenly becomes a silent, helpful tool that aids me in putting words to paper. Just another part of the screen that even disappears whenever I type.
Guess I win after all.
Whether a bad page or a good one, I can print this page and bring these words into our physical world—something from nothing. Truly a miracle, one every writer experiences every day of our writing lives.
Bring on the blank pages.
contemplative
artistic
accomplished