The most intimidating thing in the world is a blank page.
Seriously, just open up a word document and take a gander. You'll see
absolutely nothing (except the empty white). This on its own
certainly isn't all that frightening a sight, but when you have to
fill it... ahhhh, yes, therein lies the terror. It is the darkness
(an ironic darkness because the page is so bright) that looks back at
you. Or doesn't; this darkness fills with whatever you want it to
contain, but it also can remain completely void (void isn't right,
though; it suggests an absence while this scenario the page is
utterly blank: neither having substance nor lacking substance).
A blank page is like looking into a mirror and not seeing anything. Or worse, it's like looking into a mirror, moving and shouting, but your reflection merely stands still, looking back at you. God, that's a creepy image! Was the reflection smirking at you, too? And looking right behind you? Oh, man! And then, the reflection just walks the F away! Leaving you standing there, in the bathroom, alone! Which then leaves you to wonder if there was anything in the mirror in the first place, and if so, what was it? That, ladies and gentlemen, is a blank page.
So now that we know what that is, what would that make writing? Easy: solitary confinement with that messed-up mirror.
You're trapped in a room with absolutely nothing in it except for you and the mirror. The only thing you can do is look at that mirror, and try to control whatever it is inside of it. You have to keep it from walking away, but you can't let it petrify either. So, you dance. You dance with your own damn reflection. It's okay; you're alone, so it's not that weird.
But while you're dancing with your image, there, alone in solitary confinement, you also keep track of your steps. You record them, you make them better (more engaging for the mirror's image), and you make them easier for you to take, as well. So you dance for your time in solitary, you lose track of how long you've been in there, but one day, the dance is complete. Complete from beginning to end, and you love taking every step of it, and to you it is this absolutely beautiful and wonderful thing. The only thing that it needs, at this point, is for another real human being to experience it. See, you can dance on your own all you want, but it's boring, and it doesn't make much sense, and when you create or even just find something that's truly wonderful, you have to share it to experience it in its fullness.
So one day, when the guard shovels your food into the slot, you ask him if he would like to see your dance. He says “Sure” but then immediately walks away. Next day, same guard, same question, and you ask why he didn't watch yesterday. He says he thought it was more of a general question, like, “Do you enjoy cake.” I mean, who would say no to that? But really, “sure” means “no.” So next day, different guard, you ask her to see your dance, and he says sure, and this time he peeks in through the slot. So you dance! Perfectly according to your steps, you dance, and she is fascinated by it! When you're tired, sweaty, and spent at the end, you ask him what he thinks. “It was good,” is all he says. So you ask him about specific parts of the dance, parts you loved and parts that were extra difficult, and parts that still felt awkward. “It was all good,” is all he says. And then he leaves. You've spent six months in solitary confinement with a mirror and your own footsteps and the absolute pinnacle of your accolades and success was “It was good.”
So you copy your steps, remember them, and get the mirror out again to start a new dance that will maybe make others see and feel the magic of dance (by which I mean writing)!
In general, I don't like writing about writing. It seems too convoluted and shortsighted a process. But, I do LOVE riding metaphors to the grave! Click on the ads like a simile nosing baited cheese!
A blank page is like looking into a mirror and not seeing anything. Or worse, it's like looking into a mirror, moving and shouting, but your reflection merely stands still, looking back at you. God, that's a creepy image! Was the reflection smirking at you, too? And looking right behind you? Oh, man! And then, the reflection just walks the F away! Leaving you standing there, in the bathroom, alone! Which then leaves you to wonder if there was anything in the mirror in the first place, and if so, what was it? That, ladies and gentlemen, is a blank page.
So now that we know what that is, what would that make writing? Easy: solitary confinement with that messed-up mirror.
You're trapped in a room with absolutely nothing in it except for you and the mirror. The only thing you can do is look at that mirror, and try to control whatever it is inside of it. You have to keep it from walking away, but you can't let it petrify either. So, you dance. You dance with your own damn reflection. It's okay; you're alone, so it's not that weird.
But while you're dancing with your image, there, alone in solitary confinement, you also keep track of your steps. You record them, you make them better (more engaging for the mirror's image), and you make them easier for you to take, as well. So you dance for your time in solitary, you lose track of how long you've been in there, but one day, the dance is complete. Complete from beginning to end, and you love taking every step of it, and to you it is this absolutely beautiful and wonderful thing. The only thing that it needs, at this point, is for another real human being to experience it. See, you can dance on your own all you want, but it's boring, and it doesn't make much sense, and when you create or even just find something that's truly wonderful, you have to share it to experience it in its fullness.
So one day, when the guard shovels your food into the slot, you ask him if he would like to see your dance. He says “Sure” but then immediately walks away. Next day, same guard, same question, and you ask why he didn't watch yesterday. He says he thought it was more of a general question, like, “Do you enjoy cake.” I mean, who would say no to that? But really, “sure” means “no.” So next day, different guard, you ask her to see your dance, and he says sure, and this time he peeks in through the slot. So you dance! Perfectly according to your steps, you dance, and she is fascinated by it! When you're tired, sweaty, and spent at the end, you ask him what he thinks. “It was good,” is all he says. So you ask him about specific parts of the dance, parts you loved and parts that were extra difficult, and parts that still felt awkward. “It was all good,” is all he says. And then he leaves. You've spent six months in solitary confinement with a mirror and your own footsteps and the absolute pinnacle of your accolades and success was “It was good.”
So you copy your steps, remember them, and get the mirror out again to start a new dance that will maybe make others see and feel the magic of dance (by which I mean writing)!
In general, I don't like writing about writing. It seems too convoluted and shortsighted a process. But, I do LOVE riding metaphors to the grave! Click on the ads like a simile nosing baited cheese!
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