The Blank Page

Ah, the blank page.

Writer Bleeding

How many times will I stare at the achromatic display  of my humble laptop in supposed reverence, my immense devotion to and admiration of the vacant screen only equal to my towering disdain and criticism of it? When will my fingers cease to hover as they wait on words to evolve, to flow from the roughened stubs in an exquisite dance across the black keyboard, stopping only when it becomes necessary to wet my exhausted throat, fatigued by the continuous flow of clairvoyant colloquium?

Statler & Waldorf got nothin' on Twain.
Statler & Waldorf got nothin’ on Twain.

What is this inability to effectively convey electronic impulses from the creative spaces of my brain to my awareness, pushing on to the crowns of my ever waiting, ever willing fingers? Rather, instead it seems I am intent to mourn the beautiful emptiness of the white page before I have even begun to bloody it with my arbitrary words, hoping they might make an inkling of sense as I solder my erratic thoughts together into messy lines – piece-mealed prose stitched into a semantic roadmap.

You can do anything you set your mind to.
You can do anything you set your mind to.

Maybe I should give up.

Huh, well that's....advice.
Huh, well that’s….advice.

The inner space of the page equates possibility – that of colorful stories I have yet to inscribe, and even yet to envision – because if I’ve learned anything at all, it is that the two are not mutually exclusive. It is true that I’ve made minimal headway, as fragmented pieces of creativity are dictated into a recorded device, half assed ideas and crude anecdotal events inescapable from the voltaic communicative value – jumping from the electronic signals of my brain to an external electronic apparatus that might contain them.

Hey, it could happen...
Hey, it could happen…

Still, they remain electrical values, and try as I might, the thoughts reflected within either medium are happy to live there – the fuller versions yet to be released, pressed up against the walls of the confines of my stagnant mind, pounding at the inside of my skull to be liberated, as the smaller escaped narratives scratch at my psyche in an understanding of the emancipation, impatiently biding the indistinguishable opportunity.

And when opportunity knocks...
And when opportunity knocks…

And my inability to appropriately articulate things onto an actual page continues, the slate before me remaining barren, and tears of frustration paired with a tightened chest and a pinched tongue decorate my subconscious.

I feel ya, Chewie.

Yes. I should give up.

I hear ya, honey...
Well, this sounds familiar.

I hate and love writing in equal measure, especially the older I get, and the more I realize that this path – this whole thing, really, is a farce. Practically the entirety of my years I’ve intended to write a book – to become a “Famous Best Selling Author”, as my Parent’s words had assured since I was just seven-years-old and had an article published in our small town newspaper through my school.

Uh huh. Yeah. Right.
Uh huh. Yeah. Right.

At their near daily behest on the subject, I believed them, and from that moment on my life’s path was determined. I would be a Writer- and not just any writer, but a Famous Best Selling Author. That’s right. Me, Kati Neal: Famous. Best Selling. Author.

Thas right, Sista!
Thas right, Sista!

Annnnnd… I am at 43, not being a Famous Best Selling Author, letting my parents – my mother, who has been gone for a decade – down, and feeling as incapable as ever. Whose idea was this writing thing anyway?

Shit, seriously. ARGH.
Shit, seriously. ARGH.

For 36 years I’ve been told – whether by a parent or by myself, that I was destined for this, that this was my calling – my gift. Even my therapist (yeah, so what?) jumped on the bandwagon, telling me she believed I had a few best sellers in me yet.

Sage advice.
Sage advice.

But, what does she know? What I’ve told her, that’s what. And she says what she thinks she ought to say to make things better. It’s her job, and she’s been paid well. Having said that…

Incapability sucks. So does shitting on the floor, incidentally.
Incapability sucks. So does shitting on the floor, incidentally.

It does appear I’ve churned out a few paragraphs on the matter here, and for as much blood, sweat, and tears as they’ve cost, I’d just as much spit in their direction as applaud them. Still, writing about the fact that I’m not writing is, I suppose, writing nonetheless, in spite of the fact that I’ve broken down in tears more than once as I have typed away today, aggressively punching sharp pins into an unobtrusive cushion.

Do me, Baby. Anytime, anyplace.
Do me, Baby. Anytime, anyplace.

Maybe I shouldn’t give up.


Whether out of duty or destiny, my non-fiction appetite may yet again be whet, of at least the consideration I am assured. And I think that’s enough to keep me going for now.

Guess it'd be rude if I didn't keep on keepin' on, then...
Guess it’d be rude if I didn’t keep on keepin’ on, then…

So, baby steps and all that, right? While I’ve certainly been taking them for some time by now, the walk hasn’t been so bad. And, it’s been said that the journey is as important as the destination. And maybe -just maybe, with a bit of poking and prodding to the ole noggin’ – who am I kidding, with A LOT of poking and prodding, I’ll write about that. Maybe.

I feel good. I feel great. I feel wonderful.
I feel good. I feel great. I feel wonderful.


2 thoughts on “The Blank Page

    1. Aw I love you too, Dad! Writing has been my BFF (best f*cking frienemy) most my life, it’s true. I’m beginning to understand the whole tortured artist thing, haha! But, your encouragement has never ceased – and I’m very grateful for that! Love you! 🙂

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