A Blank Page

A blank page, the arch nemesis of the creative mind, stares at me. It taunts, its mere presence brings to the forefront of my mind all those inner doubts. I am not really a writer; I’m just unemployed. I tell myself that being a stay-at-home mom is what I’m doing for my kids, but that it’s not really who I am. No, I contend, I am a writer, and staying at home allows me to pursue my writing career. And so, pursue it I must. The kids are with their father, the car is across the street for an oil change, and so I am stranded at the coffee shop with nothing but my laptop and my creativity.
But my creativity is on a coffee break. The blank page stares at me, heckling, telling me that nothing I write is any good, so why bother? His ally, the Internet, lures me. I click over. I browse. I research hotels for our upcoming vacation. And as I wait for a page to load, I click back to see what has become my least favorite color – white.
I see nothing but white. The toolbars fade into oblivion as the overwhelming brightness of what I cannot conquer gleams and shines. I stare at it, willing my mind to conjure insightful images that I may stomp onto the page, slapping its white smirking face. But all I see is white. I cannot think.
I look around. People sit drinking coffee. Some in suits, some in t-shirts and shorts. But they all sit, calmly, free of visible conflict. The most conflict to be found here is in the face of the person next in line trying to decide – before called upon – what she wants to eat. Do I want a muffin or banana bread? Ooh, how about that croissant? That looks good. But such is not a literary conflict. Man versus self for sure, but unless it is the last piece of banana bread that she chooses, and the person behind her is in a particularly bad mood and decides to shoot up the coffee shop in retaliation, it’s really not a story.
I stare out the window, hoping the subject of my next story will walk by and inspire me. So dependent am I on external inspiration. And therein lies the power of my foes.
My mother once bought me a beautiful leather journal for my birthday. Or maybe it was Christmas. Anyhow, it was so beautiful that I felt pressured to use it well. I couldn’t use it as my diary; the boys splashed in the tub today, it was so cute. Or, my period started today. I was really hoping I was pregnant this time. But honestly, I’m also kind of relieved. No, this is not the stuff to put in a real journal. I needed to write beautifully in such a beautiful journal. And so it became my fiction journal, where I would jot down notes or passages that would someday be a part of my novel, a novel that will never be written (at least not by me). So everyday, or every time I got a chance to write in my journal, I would sit and stare at my new blank page, my fresh, clean, crisp, promising blank page, watching me eagerly, awaiting the beauty that I would instill onto its lines. Perhaps it was the lines, and the smaller size of the page, that made that experience less trying for me. But a blank sheet of paper, as I remember, was much less threatening. Because usually, I would have a thought, and then I would rush over to the journal to jot it down. And once I wrote something down, anything, even if I later crossed it out, the page was no longer blank.
But on a computer, I can delete. This document itself started three times. I type, I evaluate, I delete. And the blank page stares back at me each time; flashing me an arrogant I told you so expression that gets bolder each time. I stare back indignantly, telling the page (and myself) that I can write. But then the fact that I am talking to a computer screen fills me with despair as I realize that maybe the blank page is right.
I can’t think that way, I tell myself. I’ve worked myself up and need a break. And I click over to the Internet. At this point, six windows are open, and my selection criteria for a hotel in Paris has gotten much more complex. It can’t be too expensive, or too gaudy, or too loud. A view would be great, but not crucial.
The Internet lures me with its siren’s song, distracting me from my personal odyssey to be a writer. So alluring is its access to the outside world that most days eludes me as I sit playing quietly with one child as the other naps upstairs. With quick fingers and the click of a mouse, I can chat with friends, play word games, shop, run errands, and read the paper. What a glorious invention, truly, the Internet is, and my past life as a computer geek gives me much reason to admire the technology.
I recall my college years, back before the web. I would be up late studying, while a friend at another college worked at the computer lab. Using a text-based email system that connected through telnet, he and I would send one-line messages back and forth to break the monotony of the self-imposed all-nighters.
So as I sit in the coffee shop, I think, “Boy, that would make a neat story, maybe I could develop something along those lines.” But it’s been done. A few years ago, I read a novel composed entirely of emails. And frankly, I don’t remember enough about the early nineties – at least enough of the details – to write about that era. Perhaps time would help define that time. But really, since it’s been over ten years since I’ve graduated, maybe the time has come.
But there’s my problem. I can’t seem to finish what I start. I start many projects, many documents. But then time runs out (or the mechanic calls to say my car is ready), and that’s it. I never seem to revisit the file. Instead, I stress about never having any ideas, not having a muse. And I click back to the Internet, my blank page having won again.