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Monday, May 12, 2008

The Blank Page

When I see a blank page, like Donald Murray, I see the promise of what could be…

I live in an era not of erasers or trashcans but of delete buttons and recycle bins, but the goal and triumph is universal. To write something beautiful, eloquent, readable, entertaining, inspiring…is nothing short of amazing every time I attempt it. I, too, am not sure if I’ve completed anything deserving of accolades, of that point in which you stop and think My god, I’ve done it. I never feel finished.

No matter at what stage I’m in with a project, I could continue to edit, revise, elaborate… when I pick up a copy of one of my novels in a bookstore, I don’t actually read the lines or I’m afraid I’d want to take out a pencil. However, the rush of emotion as I gaze at the product is overwhelming. The product itself never satisfying, it’s the journey that evokes the sense of wonder, of completion, of a sheer euphoria only experienced while writing. Many hobbies satisfy, exhilarate, even intoxicate me, but none elicits the response of writing something I feel worthy of reading aloud. First to myself, then to my dogs, then to my best friend. If it survives the triad, I surge ahead with edits, revision, and the ultimate goal of finding where it fits: a blog, a chapter, an essay… That component may signify the end of the journey for the child I’ve created, but for me, it’s the point in time at which I created it that exudes the memories. Isn't that what conception truly is? I think so.

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