Dear Blank Page,

It’s been no secret that you and I have had our differences over the last two or three months.

It’s been no secret that while I thought we’d worked things out, I could’ve thought we were okay far too soon.

What is it with you lately that has gotten me in such a tizzy? With such a fear of even putting down the slightest word, the tiniest pen stroke? What keeps me rapidly and rampantly erasing every single thing?

Fear. The fear and intimidation you set.

Writing is a fickle, fickle thing. Many people who don’t write creatively don’t understand that (and I’m being constantly reminded of this fact).

I’ve written, I’ve gotten words down, but yet, the ability to hit publish or send or even sometimes “Save Draft” is even gone. I have no tangible products to show for the work and the pain I’ve been through lately.

You’re daunting and scary, yes. I sometimes feel the same deep-seeded fear I felt as a child when I would listen to one oddly creepy radio ad and run screaming to the comfort of my parents–that unadulterated, earth-shattering fear.

It’s a fear that I know I can overcome, but it’s also like the fear and dread that sets in as I sit and watch the grey storm clouds roll in through my floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s a fear that hurts, a fear that sits in the pit of my stomach.

There’s nothing that compares to it. And there’s absolutely nothing that compares to beating it.

But for now, you and I will just have to sit and talk it out again. It’s okay, I know you think that I might not be enough for you, but right now you’re not quite enough for me either. This blank page, this unrivaled fear, they’re not working for me. And so, right now, I will hit publish and we’ll move on from here. Alright? Thanks.

Love you always, even when you’re a petulant brat.


Editor’s Notes:

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