Boring Blank Page


The blank page. It’s occasionally annoying. When it’s there for too long. I get clever with it and begin to talk about the blank page. Then it can’t be blank. I win immediately. And I do it often. I’m always abusing the fact that in order to be a writer you must do nothing other than write. It’s programmed into my DNA by now.

It’s too easy, though. I’m bored of it. There needs to be a new challenge. I get tired of being able to do things. Where the fuck is that thing I can’t do? Where is this illusive writers block I here so much of? Why isn’t it anywhere I look, yet everyone else seems to trip over the fucker wherever they go? Is it that I’m looking in the wrong places? I don’t understand. Is its existence a joke going right over my head?

Now, I can ramble forever about this. There’s an infinite amount to discuss when it comes to writers block and what the blank page is and represents. Of them all, my only interest is on the blank page and how I’ve diminished its power over me. How the image of a blank page is what I find most comfort in when I need to think something up on the fly.

A blank page is the reason I write when I have nothing more to write. Feels like I've destroyed the purpose of writers block. Can it not handle the abstract?