Empty notebooks
I didn't write this, but I liked it when I read it. This is transcribed from a yellow Van Gogh moleskine.Beginnings are ripe with possibilities, which is what makes it so hard to start a new writing endeavor. It's in stark contrast to action, and its peculiar, unseen momentum — the metaphorical broomstick that pokes you hard in the middle of your spine and, for better or worse, sends you moving.
Love is a great example. I wrote once (in my infinitely more eloquent and prolific days):You have to look for reasons
not to fall in love
for once you fall
it becomes your reason
for everything.What I didn't appreciate back then is precisely how small that window really is. You've got anywhere from 5 minutes to a few weeks to talk yourself out of it before the broom moves in for the poke. It may send you toppling, it may send you stumbling, but make no mistake… it WILL send you.
Writing is different. The vast expanse of white space stretches out before you, longing to be filled with purpose and meaning. No scrap of space wants to be consigned the cruel fate of a grocery list, receipt, or partially-aborted and totally-forgotten haiku.
The writer is saddled with enormous responsibility — to save the page from its meaningless existence. A good writer — nay, a SMART writer — knows how perilous it is. He or she knows that every stroke, every character, every syllable is a brand of commitment.
With the first sweep of a pen, you've made a hundred decisions about the fate of your space. You capriciously start the first hard line of a ‘B’ and the possibilities for the page have gone from ‘infinite’ to ‘many’.
Keep it up, and you'll write yourself into complete and utter determinism.
Is it any wonder I have so many empty notebooks?
Posted at 2006-02-28 17:06:11 by Richard • Link to Empty notebooks
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