A Blank Page

I didn't always know I was a writer. Even after I finished my manuscript, I had a hard time labeling myself as such. It wasn't until just recently that I found myself able to embrace the term. I think what makes me a writer is that I'm not afraid of a blank page.

It seems obvious in retrospect. I've been writing in my head my whole life. Stories. Poems. Songs. Random phrases that don't mean much of anything at first, but later blossom into whole new worlds with vivid characters in dazzling places, doing amazing things. They all putter around in my mind, waiting their turn to cover that bright, white emptiness. It's the blank page that should fear me.

My approach to writing is much the same as my approach to life. I rush through the process, yearning for something tangible and compelling but, mostly, it's just a hot mess. So, I go back over it. Again and again. For years, sometimes, trying to get it right, but never quite managing to pull all the pieces into place. Then, one day, out of the blue, magic happens and, with the turn of a phrase, it comes together more beautifully than anything I ever imagined.

So, I just keep living and, at thirty-three, I'm still doing it all wrong. Still rushing. Still in a constant state of change. Never really sure of myself, what I want or where I'll go next. Still waiting for that sparkling moment of clarity when everything will finally make sense. It used to bother me, that wrongness. I guess that's why I kept trying to edit who I am. 

I see now, though, that while the hot mess might not make a best selling novel, it makes for a most extraordinary life. I can stop trying to change the past. There doesn't have to be a moral to the story. Perfect or not, the ending will write itself. Every day is just another blank page, waiting to be filled, to be lived. And I'm not afraid of a blank page.

I enjoy the freedom of the blank page. ~ Irvine Welsh