The Power of the Blank

Old writing wisdom (read: the Internet) holds that one of the most fearsome things a writer faces is the blank page. This is, supposedly, why one of the most tired little chestnuts a new writer can trot out is a character waking up in a blank white room with no memory—a manifestation, so say the experts, of the writer's deep fear of the blank white page/screen that they have to fill, day after day, with words.

Somehow, I didn't get that. For me, the most terrifying thing is not the blank page; it's the crowded page. When I'm having writer's block, it's rarely because I don't know where to start (not depending on my writing for food and clothing does alleviate that pressure somewhat; it's usually because I don't know how to continue. So I dread the end of the work day, when it comes time to head home to that page full of words, all crammed together in neat little rows, and I am not sure which word should come after that; and then which one should come after that, and after that, and after that...

So sometimes, I just open up a new document. Even if I'm working on the exact same story, somehow the whiteness and the expansiveness of it gives me the breathing room I need to move forward with the story. This has gone on for as long as I can remember, honestly; back in the days when I thought about being a Very Famous Cartoonist I remember that any drawing session I sat down for was best fueled by the presence of a big stack of blank white paper right next to me, as though somehow I was going to produce 300 pages of Artistic Genius right there at my family coffee table. And even beyond direct inspiration, I have always been surrounded by blank paper and unused or nearly-unused office supplies—even my desk at the office has an unopened ream of paper sitting on it, near my Inbox. (admittedly, that was because my makeshift ergonomic adjustment was one ream of paper too high, but I haven't bothered to move it yet, either.)

So, I do not doubt the fear of the blank page—I think I've ever experienced it from time to time—but I do have to say that a blank page can do a lot of good, too. Blank pages are just another little bit of magic in the bizarre spell that is art, a symbol that can be channeled in one of several directions; for right now, I'm just going to be grateful that my particular corner of the mental landscape seems to view them in a positive light. After all, at least when I get hit by the inevitable Writer's Dread, I've already written something; though then again, that does mean I have something to focus on when it comes time to hate my own work...

Isn't writing fun?

(The answer is yes.)