In praise of the blank page

They say ...

... Just who are 'they' anyway?

There's nothing worse than staring at a blank page

I personally LOVE a blank page/screen.

It is still in a state of perfection. The blank screen is actually unsoiled and unspoiled. There are no typographical errors. The illusive showing but not telling mix hasn't been disturbed. Nothing offensive or insensitive has been recorded for the world to see.

The first keystroke changes all of that. Then comes the doubt, the fear, the concern. The next keystroke redoubles it. It can almost be paralytic.

But no longer.

The screen can easily be deleted, sometimes too much too. 

The journey can always be begun again.

Maybe things were better longhand or via typewriter. There was more courage and less second guessing. More permanence and less redrafting the same line over and over again.

They, the unknown, those who live in the ethers should exert no more control over me than I do over them.

With that, it is time to get out my three ring notebook and scribble. 

City Museum, Florence, AZ

writing doodle - dusting off the keyboard

Kate pulled the dust rag out of her apron pocket and flicked it over the typewriter keyboard.

Of all of the things in her home, this was the most sacred item she possessed.  It was worth more to her than all of the faded baby pictures that belonged to friends, piles of old holiday cards, or programs her children had performed in long ago and far away.

The typewriter is where she learned how to be in touch with herself and her imagination.

Sure, she had a computer now.  But it wasn't the same.

The old manual typewriter was uncompromising and exacting.

Each strike of the key was solid and firm beneath her fingers.

Each strike of a key brought things into clearer focus.

Each strike of the key released something in her soul that needed to be free.

The computer with its programs was too easy.  There was no need to contemplate each word or phrase. If she didn't like it, she could delete some or all of it and there was no proof of what she had done.

The computer didn't feel permanent.  It felt temporary and easily replaceable.

Maybe perfection is overrated.