The blank page often is thought of as a curse. Writers bemoan it. They even wail about it. They fret and stew about the blank page. They worry about putting words on the page. They worry about not putting words on the page. They fear the blank page will haunt them for the rest of their lives. They wonder when the blank page will stop being such a bully and let them write. They wonder if they can stage a coup. They fear the blank page already knows their plans to rebel, so they hide. They avoid the blank page. They make a pot of coffee. They wash the dishes or fold the laundry. They pretend they can’t see the blank page from the corner of their eye, but they know it’s there, glowering, waiting.
blank page
What to Do When the Well Runs Dry
The curse of the blank page is an actual phenomenon. You, the writer, come to the page, and nothing pours forth from your head or hands. You stare at the blinking cursor, and it stares back at you. You feel yourself diminish underneath the weight of its gaze. Your ideas, already a trickle, stop altogether. Your well runs dry. You wonder if the source of water has been depleted entirely or if it’s time to move onto a new well. You wonder a lot of things when faced with the blank page and the blinking cursor.