The Blank Page

There are few things I find more intimidating than a blank page. I’ve kept diaries and journals most of my life, and for as long as I can remember I’ve always dreaded the blank page. Tina gave me my first diary on my 8th birthday. It was white with pastel colored flowers and butterflies on the cover and it had a shiny brass lock with two keys. I remember agonizing over where to hide the keys from the world - or more specifically, from my sister. I couldn’t wait to start recording my adventures. That was the beginning of my love for writing, even though I was too young to understand it. Every night before I went to bed, I would open that little book and stare at the blank page while trying to sort out the thousands of thoughts in my head into something readable. Sounds strange, doesn’t it, that an 8 year old would agonize over what to put in a simple diary? But for me, it was so much more: it was a record of what was important to me at that moment in time. It was a record of me. As a child I started doodling at the top of the page while I was thinking of what to write. It not only filled in the white space to keep it from staring at me, it helped me gather my thoughts and sort out what was important enough to write down. I rarely write in paper journals anymore, but when I do, the top margins are still filled with doodles. Even now that I journal on the computer, the blank page still haunts me.

The one thing I have absolute confidence about is my writing. I’m not saying it’s perfect or even that I have a gift, only that it’s the one thing I do not question; it’s honest and it’s personal. For as long as I can remember, I have been composing things in my head, trying to find the perfect way to express what I want to say. And I do it at odd times: while driving, in the middle of conversations, as I’m drifting off to sleep, while reading, eating dinner or even in the shower. More than once I have scribbled snippets with my finger in the fog on the bathroom mirror so I won't forget the perfect wording I just discovered. I am compelled to write. I can’t seem to not do it. Since junior high, I have journaled at least three days a week (writing something: true stories, poems, ideas, snippets, etc.). And certainly, there have been periods when I’ve been too busy, too tired, too lazy, too whatever and stopped all together and I noticed I felt...different somehow. Almost like I was disconnected with my view of the world, disconnected with myself. And so, I start again.

Which brings me back to the blank page; it always comes back to the blank page. It’s just there, pristine white, empty except for the blinking cursor, it dares me to fill it with brilliant words; even as it taunts me with it’s vastness, it challenges me to do it justice. I’ve come to realize that as much as I’m intimidated by a blank page, I am also strangely comforted by it.