The Blank Page

Some of the issues that came up in Schedule are coming to a head; I’m cutting back hours at work because there simply isn’t time to be a writer, a student, a fiancé, and a bike mechanic. Ah, well; the superfluous must go, then.

……..

I think this is what they call “writer’s block.” It happens to us all, I suppose, except Grady Tripp. I remember those who were afraid of a white blank page; to them it was a cavernous void that, *gasp,* had to be filled. I never understood being afraid of a blank page, except when talking about school or college assignments. Like when the professor demands a 7-page paper, and the student must dutifully fill all seven pages.

But that wasn’t the context of the discussion, back then; we were talking about writing for fun. In which case, I saw the blank page as an adventure waiting to happen. The blank page was opportunity, to fill with whatever I deemed fit. To be sure, in the beginning, I strove for a specific page count per chapter, and that was sometimes exasperating – but even then, still only rarely. After abandoning that, I had acquired a pretty good feel for chapter length. Call me picky, but random-length chapters annoy me; one is ten pages, then five, then twenty, then two. Use a line break, people, come on. Or come up with a better narrative.

See how I fill the page now? Random wanderings, with no thesis statement in sight. Freedom. Opportunity, to bring up whatever I want. Why is that daunting? Sure, a theme must be held in a short story or a novel; but just keep the theme in mind, and explore with words – it’ll come about one way or another. I fit doesn’t, that’s what revising is for. But until then, just have fun with words. Paint pretty pictures; tell funny or sad stories; use alliteration till it makes you sick. And then fix it! Throw the sand on the board, then push and pull and shape until you have a castle. But the castle won’t be built if there’s no sand on the board. The castle is what will draw on-lookers, but until you have that, just have fun playing in the sand, for pity’s sake. 

Sometimes I envision myself dancing around the words, bending and ducking around the bigger ones, looping around smaller ones, dodging mid-sized ones. My mind plays over the syllables and sounds like music, now high, now low; I can’t dance a jig to save my life, but give me some words! Then watch me move. But not just the way the words play over my mind, but their meanings, their nuances, subtle and precise when used and understood properly.

So is it any surprise that my ire flares when an itinerant man is called prodigal? Or when those who claim to be writers use the phrase “I could of done”? Does not a true Christian’s heart quiver when a man bombs an abortion clinic in the name of God? I suppose only if we agree on the definition of “true Christian.”

So, fill that page; relish the words; bathe yourself in the most fragrant of shampoos. If it turns out to be not so fragrant, fix it later. And write.

See you Thursday.