is there anything more comically absurd than the fear we feel staring down a blank page, an empty notebook, an untouched document? in the hearts of all writers, professional and amateur, it strikes terror. the distinct blankness mocks you, daring you to mark it with your silly words, daring you to destroy it simply by lifting your pen. does it get easier the more you look the page dead in the eye and courageously scribble your thoughts, despite the page's jeering? perhaps. but then, perhaps not. and yet, we persist, don't we? the writers, the thinkers, the feelers, writing, thinking and feeling our way through pages and pages, once blank, now full.
and so begins a practice. feeling the fear and writing anyway.