The Blank Page

I have a tie-dye of stories inside me. True and imagined. Sentences stir and swirl, waiting patiently to be freed. Words collide and commingle. Ideas dance. Beginnings and ends twirl and curl. Characters arrive and settle, speaking softly of what they will do. Conflicts swell and subside. Colors crescendo, splash and fade.

Into blinding blankness.

The blank page. It is a thing, yes. A rectangle of paper. A bright screen, unmarred. But it is also more. The blank page is emptiness. Void. Nothingness.

But the blank page is also space. Possibility. A fresh start. A canvas for becoming.

And so. We can choose how we see life's blank pages. And this decision? This choice? It is important. Not just for writers. For all of us. Because life is full of blank pages. Pages of incandescent white waiting for color, for texture, for story. It's up to us to fill these pages, isn't it? If we don't fill the pages of our own stories, won't someone else?

Today, I sit here. Facing another blank page. Another day. It stretches before me like most others, benevolent and bare. I will fill it with snuggles and smiles and tears and tantrums and errands and dreams.

Today, I sit here. Facing a pile of blank pages. My next book. It sits before me, whispering words that are scary and soothing.

Write. These are your pages to fill. This is your story to tell.

Today, I will do it. I will throw paint. I will write words. I will fill pages.

It is that simple.

(It is never that simple.)

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• Do you agree that there is something inspiring and unsettling about life's blank pages?
• Do you agree that if we don't fill our own pages ourselves - with words and stories of our choosing - someone else will?
• How will you fill the blank page of your day?
• How do you hope to fill the blank pages of your life?
• As a writer, are you daunted by the blank page?