Writing The Blank Page
Writing The Blank Page
Have you ever stared at a white page, knowing that you are supposed to create something there?
I’m supposed to be enabled to do that sort of thing. Really.
You start with a white empty void of a page, and then you fill it with alphabet letters that form words, organized into sentences, and divided up into paragraphs, on pages, organized by subjects, and sometimes compiled into books, that sit in libraries full of bound copies of what other people have already written, and almost no one ever reads.
It’s like magic, because I’m nowhere near that organized. I’m much more chaotic. If I had to consciously be that organized, I probably wouldn’t write zip.
Just organizing my stuff into websites is stifling to me.
I’m much more comfortable thinking of writing as splattering a page with paint from a rolled up ball of underwear, for people to pass by and wonder at and think about.
Yes, I think that metaphor works.
I know it gets more organized. You see something in the design, and then you refine it and organize it, compulsively. Like a woodcarver looking at a gnarled tree branch says “I see a bear in that!” and proceeds to carve it.
Sometimes it starts with the idea, “I know what I want to paint!” But sometimes it has to be jump started with a colorful splotch from a rolled up ball of paint-soaked underwear.
If it ends up communicating an idea, or inspiring someone, or teaching something, I don’t suppose it really matters.
But when you come to a blank page with a blank mind, it is comforting to know that you can just start throwing letters on the page and something will begin to form up from the parts, like a golem from drabs of magic clay.
Oh yes, words are magic clay, if you believe.
It’s all magic clay, for a fit spirit who believes.
And I like to play with it.
(C)
