I couldn't think of anything to say. When I opened this page to write my post, I still couldn't. Although 2020 has been comparatively easy for me, I am ready for it to be over. But then I really looked at the screen.
And thought how lucky I am.
Because there it is waiting for me, the greatest gift a writer can have.
The blank page.
It can be horrifying, of course, when you can't think of a publishable word to put on it. Can I have a show of hands from everyone this has happened to? Oh, forget that--there is a sea of hands out there. How about a show of hands from everyone it hasn't happened to? Yep, there are a few. I envy you, but I don't have a problem with envy. It makes you keep trying.
However, the blank page can also be so exciting. It's how every single story you've written started. Especially if you're a pantser, because then it's just one piece at a time until the puzzle is...less puzzling. It's on that blank page that your favorite hero of all time introduces himself, the heroine ends up being a short blond instead of a statuesque redhead, and the setting is a town called...what? Peacock? Really?
Blank pages make me remember--and I know I'm dating myself here--new notebooks when I was a kid. Unopened packages of lined paper and crisp folders and Bic pens with clear barrels. I always got them for Christmas. If I ever wondered why I so often start new stories after the holidays, that memory is a reminder. All those blank pages and smooth ink and pocket folders that ended up containing so much of my heart.
Happy 2021. I hope it's a wonderful year full of blank pages.
