I'm filling out a blank page at Einstein's in Broadripple, a village-y place with good coffee and regulars who know my name. They know that when I have a pad of paper with me, I'm there to write, so we just exchange a few kind words before I park myself at an empty booth.
Before I arrived I was thinking that the process of staring at blank pages required practice, just like the ritual of writing words or musical notes. Because once I've started, I'm excited and energized and working mostly pretty happily. It's the moment right before that is most frightening. You wonder if an original thought has ever or will ever enter your head again. You question the worthwhile-ness of attempting to put your thoughts down. Or perhaps you feel empty -- like there really isn't anything to say.
In my last post, "Thoughts on Art and Chocolate," there was a moment of nothingness that preceded a flurry of activity and creativity. And following that nothingness, there was a gift from above -- an idea.
So I can see three parts so far:
3. Creativity and Activity
Now I'm wondering - What happens before the nothingness??
Is there a constant? A step toward facing the blank page? Aside from an inner need to express oneself, or a "should"?
I'll be thinking about it.