I was recently watching a MasterClass with Salman Rushdie and he was talking about being intimidated by a blank page, and that resonated with me . . . . because of the opposite!
I LOVE a blank page! It’s irresistible, inspiring, tantalizing. I can’t wait to put a pen to a paper one, or start tapping at keys on a digital one, to mark it up with my inane prattle. I see empty lines or a unsullied notebook, and I’m compelled to sully it—
At the weekly “Shut Up and Write” meetup (one uninterrupted hour of creativity that has resulted in what you’re currently reading), I often go old school and write with a pen and notebook. In approaching it like that, I’ve learned that writer’s cramp (remember that?) feels so satisfying. “My hand hurts so I must’ve done something, right?”
Hmm . . . .
Doing something worthwhile, however, is always the challenge, right? I don’t take for granted how as soon as I start scribbling or typing, my pulse quickens, my chest becomes flush with adrenaline, and ray’s brain kicks into an ecstatic state that simultaneously seems like genius and idiocy. [*Insert ‘Why not both?’ meme*]
I’ve read that artificial intelligence (AI) programs are being developed to mimic creative writing, but churning out words and sentences and ideas without passion seems to be a soulless endeavor. Why say something if you’re not really saying something?
I am, therefore, I write.
At the beginning of the day, I guess it really is about letting my ego run amok. When it’s just us here—me, ray’s brain, a pen/keyboard, a blank page—that party can kind of go anyway it wants.
To wit:
He sits at the desk in his bedroom, just after sunset. The dying light of the day still has an ember or two of magic. The edges of the bed, the dresser, the pile of dirty laundry piled on the chair in the corner, all blur a little. Or soften (he’s got his reading glasses on, after all).
It’s one of those quiet, unremarkable moments that stack up and fill a life when he’s not particularly watching. He’ll probably never fully register this slice of time since there’s nothing noteworthy happening to mark it. But as his fingers continue across the keyboard, spilling thoughts into a digital document and moving around the pixels, the nothing becomes a little bit of a something. It’s granted a weird immortality of sorts, a recorded memory from his sliver of existence . . . .
If a bedroom sits empty at sunset, does it get dark?
“Look at me, I’m a philosophizer . . . .”
Maybe I’d still struggle with writing more if my brain wasn’t this never-ending tilt-a-whirl of stupid. Like, it’s easy to fill up a page if your inner monologue doesn’t ever stop to take a breath or have anything resembling a boundary. Quantity over more quantity, I’d say, is my biggest sin.
I’m glad that I’m on a first-name basis with words. Not that it helps me string any together in a cohesive or particularly useful manner. Kind of like that monkey hammering away at a mental typewriter in the hopes of stumbling upon a worthwhile thought or two after a century or so.
I suppose that any received instant I hold a romantic notion that I’m capable of crafting something beyond gibberish. “Crafting” is the emphasis here as it suggests a modicum of skill and intent that there may be significant evidence doesn’t exist in my efforts. “Honing my craft” is another ego-stroking cliche I could toss out here.
I talk about eliminating my expectations as a key to trying to be happy. That should be applied to writing as well. Expecting to create something worthwhile beyond polluting a clean page or blank screen may be a bar set too high. Sometimes, maybe the treasure is just the writing we do along the way.
Okay, hour’s up. Now I have to go shake the satisfying cramps out of my hand.