I ramble on a lot about fearing the blank page. The fear of the emptiness waiting in front of you. The fear of wasting the potential of a blank canvas. A blank page is filled with potential energy. It’s filled with stories waiting to be uncovered. It waits in front of you inescapable and inevitable.
A blank page is tantalizing in its perfection. Nothing can be wrong with a blank page. A blank page doesn’t need editing. It isn’t marred by human stories, human mistakes, human actions. It simply exists.
It’s paralyzing. With a single action words become blemishes, stains, across the page—mistakes betrayed by the seeming permanence of paper.
But there is something else about a blank page: It’s so very, oh so desperately, boring.
Books aren’t filled with blank pages. We aren’t caught up in stories told by silence. We don’t search out blank pages to fill our lives. A blank page isn’t captivating. A blank page is an invitation for creation. It’s calling out for stories it can tell. It’s calling out for words, for images, for anything to cover the emptiness.
Splash words across the page. Don’t call it a stain, a blemish, a mistake. Make a mark. What’s the worst that can happen?
And here ends a thinly veiled post about the new year. For your patience have a picture of my favorite calendar I’ve ever received:
Here’s to an anything but blank 2016.