NaPoWriMo 2013: Day 11

Blank Page

I. White.

Pure blank white, with a

faint blue cast

or a slight tinge

of yellow.

Blank slate,

the purity of possibility,

the smell of new notebook

and new paper

or recycled paper, it doesn’t matter.

A million ways I could

use this page,

a thousand different tales

or different interchangeable words,

oh the excitement of an uncharted frontier!

Plot lines as of yet unfathomed,

the uncharted waters of story,

and the dim unimagined characters.


and nothing

is here.

II. Nothing.

Characters’ breath cut off in their lungs,

lives left unlived,

problems left unsolved,

questions remain unanswered.

Worse than a bad ending,

here, the infinity of possibility

shatters your mind as you try to conceive

the  everything

and nothing that can be,


the infinite amount

of irritating plot-twists

until you cannot possibly stand

to read the book again.

III. Devastating blankness,

so much to be said and yet unsaid,

perfect image of how,

perfect movie of how,

playing behind your eyes

but you just can’t seem

to put it to words.

You try but get so far as

only three or four words

before you trail off and stare

with a smile on your face that has


and nothing

to do with the annoyance.

It’s the story.

It’s the irritation,

the frustration

of not being able to communicate

just what you’re seeing,

like a Frenchman staring at

an Indonesia native.

IV. Blank,

crisp like snow,

fresh and clean and innocent,

empty and exciting

but cold and a bother.

But a blank page? What does a writer love more

than the freedom to express

exactly what’s on their mind?

Even if using it is now impossible

it’s the comfort of knowing

that if you must, you can.

Blank page, the exhilaration connected

doesn’t matter whether

you have an idea to chronograph

or not because it’ll be

a blank


Blank, white pages seem to be both the bane of me and the joy. I love the sight of a fresh notebook, just waiting to be filled. (A full one is sad because there’s no more room, but happy because it’s got so much of my writing inside) But when I’m working for words, like in National Novel Writing Month were I have to put something down, it’s suddenly a barrier, a cruelly smiling shapeless face that I can see without seeing. “It’s the comfort of knowing/that if you must, you can.” Well, as I said, forced writing makes it feel like “if you can, you must.” Like a stubborn hog, sort of. With free rein, your mind will ramble over hill and dale until you dig in with your heels or gaze around in bewilderment when your fingers slow, wondering how you got there. And the absolute second you pull just a little on the lead to make your writing move, it lies down and refuses to move. No. I won’t, just because you want me to.

Irritating, hmm?

Today’s poetry challenge: when you sit down to do something you feel you have to do, do you find yourself staring at a blank screen, page, canvas, or block of marble? What is that like to you? Or, how do you feel starting a project? When you finish a project? I’d love to hear it!



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