I have, in the past three weeks, written over fifty blog entries. Why, then, are the ledges of past posts on the Secret Life of Daydreams getting dusty, you ask? Tabula-rasa-phobia. Well, that's what the writer, John Jerome, calls it. In other words, classic writer's fear of the blank page.
Lately, I have had it bad. I arise in the morning with all these thoughts whirling around in my head. They are lucid, opaque, moldable. They can go in any direction and hold any amount of significance I deem requisite. I rush to my page ready to solidify them into words. Yet, no matter how many times I do so, I am revolted by the bit of magic they have lost, as the essence of their ambivalence begins to erode. In an attempt to retain them in their pure form, I leave them to hide behind my blank page. How they must cower as their light diminishes beneath the weight of a new thought, dissolving from the forefront of my recollection.
Lately, I have had it bad. I arise in the morning with all these thoughts whirling around in my head. They are lucid, opaque, moldable. They can go in any direction and hold any amount of significance I deem requisite. I rush to my page ready to solidify them into words. Yet, no matter how many times I do so, I am revolted by the bit of magic they have lost, as the essence of their ambivalence begins to erode. In an attempt to retain them in their pure form, I leave them to hide behind my blank page. How they must cower as their light diminishes beneath the weight of a new thought, dissolving from the forefront of my recollection.
And so. I have a new plan this week. It's reckless; it's overhasty; it's imprudent; it's unwise; it's everything a perfectionist such as myself would find abhorrent. This week i will sling adjectives upon the page with intentional negligence. I will misuse and abuse the meaning of words, without regard to (may my professors deny they ever taught me) development, nor punctuation. This week I will slap unstable thoughts onto the page, with no buffer of reason. This week I will perform crimes against all established rules of figurative language, intentionally disregarding (readers, cringe you may) modes of rhythm and tone. This week I will write for the sake of writing — nothing more, nothing less and we shall see what will become of it. If anything more than a blank page, I shall deem myself a literary criminal of the highest class.
@ 2011 by Rachel Lowry. All Rights Reserved {photo vi.sualize.u
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