The Blank Page

It’s one of the greatest fears of a creative writer. Or at least of this creative writer. Sitting down, figuratively or literally, with the intent to put words to paper and all of a sudden the mind goes blank. So I stare at the page/monitor and wonder what in Socrates happened.

Ironically enough, I’ve been meaning to write this essay for the past week, but every time I’ve thought about working on it the screen goes white, the head goes grey, and I pull a big goose-egg. Literally. So if this seems a bit disjointed it’s because I am still, and eternally, searching for the right words.

Whoever said that genius was 5% inspiration and 95% perspiration was correct. Okay, I Googled and it was Thomas Edison. His percentages were a bit different – 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration. Here I sit looking for inspiration to say something quotable, sweating profusely over the likelihood that I won’t say anything at all.

So what do I say next on this blank page? I don’t know. I suppose the next question begs to understand why people write. Or why they consider themselves writers.

I have an opinion on just about everything. I suppose that’s the origin of thought and creates the need to say something. I may have the wrong information on the topic but I can usually come up with some sort of reaction which may, or may not, be reasonable given my mood du jour. I also have an eye for the unusual or extraordinary so while I opine away I’m also opting to find that unique voice and expression to drive it.

Therein lies the challenge. What if I pick the wrong opening line? What if my idea doesn’t bear any literal fruit? What if my language choices read like a comic strip? What if there just aren’t the right words? What if I get half-way through the idea and it just dries up like a lake in a drought? What if I sound like a blithering idiot?

What if, what IF, WHAT IF????? It screams at me like an angry mountain lion cornered in an inescapable place.

I know how it feels.

A very wise man once pronounced there is nothing new under the sun. Consequently there is a finite source of creative ideas and all the observer does is reorganize those same ideas into a different structure. While the end product may look new, it really isn’t. Someone just pushed the refresh button.

Here’s where the mystery ends. There is no mystery, there’s just a lot of hard work and discipline. I thought discipline belonged to Catholic school nuns and Dominas (…must…not….comment….). The road to heaven may be paved with angels, but the road to hell is lined with gold stars and that’s something a writer can bank on.