Whenever I see a blank page, I have a desire to fill it, to put something meaningful down. I must control myself when I’m in a store where journals, tablets, or just plain notebooks are available. I own too many half filled journals and notebooks. Despite a conscious effort to control my hoarding tendencies, I still give in.
I’m not really a hoarder. Quite the opposite actually. Except with books. I’ve so many that I haven’t read, much like the journals I’ve yet to fill. I will read them, just like I will fill the others. I want to.
When I was in highschool, I had a particular art teacher I adored, and one day she asked me what I would do when I’d read all the books in the world. My answer: write my own.
Something has been lost of the catharses of putting pen to paper. With technology, computers, smart phones, and electronic tablets hardly anyone bothers with the toil of writing manually, it seems. But we writers do; I do. There was a time when it was the only form of writing mankind had, putting quill to paper, reed to papyrus, chisel to tablet, primitive paint to cave walls.
I can type my words, dictate them onto recorder, or express them verbally to another, however none of those methods can take the place of channeling my ideas through the pen and onto a tangible surface. Most of my writing is done via keyboard, but still nothing-to me-compares with the pure act of writing, of using my magic wand, my hand wielding yet restraining its power.
Words on the page. Not the electronic landscape with which our eyes and minds have become familiar, but literal writing. Putting ideas on the page, there to fill the blank spaces.