Blank pages have a long history of terror and oppression. I don't care if it's a sheet of paper, a canvas, a computer screen, or a metaphor for one's future, the tabula rasa is as overwhelming as it is "freeing."
This afternoon I am writing from a new space: I have redistributed the clutter of the second story, and now have my long-dreamed for workspace. My desk is in a corner, under a skylight; the room is small, with sloping ceilings, and wide-planked floor. A series of nightstands provide surface area for my printer, books and binders, so the desk itself can be tidy, can accommodate a tea tray. The room still even holds one guest bed, where my cat has obligingly ensconced herself to encourage me in my toils (oh, my cat- the ultimate putterer).
All is right with the world, so surely, surely I can write.
The weekend, though pleasantly full of quiet company, has left me mentally lethargic and listless, with a low-grade headache. Every little cogitation seems to recoil from the hungry white space of record. It might be lonely, it might not show to advantage, it refuses to be set to words.
Nonetheless, for the sake of having thrown down something:
I took a hike. It was lovely. I found a place to picnic at mid to low tide. The blues can't be described, and now it would appear, my life can't be planned.
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