Storycraft

Very few things can match the terror of a blank page. Whether you work long form or use a word processor, when you sit down to write, it’s showtime–you’ve created your own private stage, the lights are on you, and the curtain’s rising. The audience has filled their seats, the orchestra has finished warming up, the show is ready to begin, right?

Except, like most of us, you open your mouth, and no words come out. Perhaps you manage a small, bleated yip before freezing up completely. Then you just stand there, dumbfounded and uncertain, with all eyes on you.

But what is this? Why is this happening? Here you are  your own private God, no? Why, the words should just spring forth–Let There Be Story–and then the page should just automatically fill up, or perhaps the keyboard should just starting clicking away on its own, or the pen should spring to life, scribbling furiously across entire reams of paper, yes?

If only.

Relax. We all get the jitters from time to time. And isn’t that really what this is? Rather than facing off against an expectant audience, though, we’re facing off against an internal audience–and our fears, doubts, and misgivings all have season tickets in the box seat. They sit up there, munching on their popcorn and their candy, slurping soda while spilling it on the floor, and the whole time they’re yelling “Give it up!” or “You’ll never make it, Fatso!” or whatever deflating insult your mind can cook up for them to shout. Even if you manage to quiet their little voices, you can never quite escape the feeling of their eyes, constantly zipping all over you–judging you, evaluating you, provoking you into feeling that maybe they’re right, maybe this is foolish, maybe I should give up.

Except, there are no eyes, are there? Your fears, doubts, and misgivings–those are just figments of your imagination, aren’t they? So, what’s really happening, and what can you do to stop it?

I’ve used the analogy of a stage performance because I feel it’s an appropriate comparison, and hopefully one that gives some semblance of what’s really going on inside the mind of your friendly neighborhood writer. Both are situations where you have an entertainer trying their damnedest to amuse an audience, to wow them with some brilliant and unexpected bravura performance. And, in both situations, it’s entirely possible that at any point your may spiral into despair and want to curl up into a ball in front of everyone and bawl your eyes out.

It’s stage fright, pure and simple. The blank page is terrifying to most writers. Now, I’m sure there are a few daring souls out there who look upon the their word processor or notepad and feel no fear–perhaps exhilaration, even–but I have not met them (and probably never will).

So what to do? Just start typing whatever comes into your head? Fill the page with endless rhetorical questions? Perhaps give in and actually do curl up into a ball?

I’m not brazen enough to declare there is one end-all correct answer here. There isn’t, or if there is, then it’s known by one guy, and he ain’t sharing. Maybe he’s the son of a bitch who looks at his notepad with boundless enthusiasm. But for the rest of us, down here on Earth, we turn to  little tricks to get the juices flowing–writing prompts, workshops, daily goals, and an endless stream of sugary snacks and gut-rotting soda.

Tiny crutches, I think of them. They ultimately help you, or they don’t. Whatever yours is–and I know you have one–if it works, I say do it, and do it without guilt. Me, personally, I love sour lemon candies. I work with a big bag of them in my drawer. Some days, they’re a reward for hitting the 1000-word mark. Other days, they’re encouragement to keep going until I hit the 20-word mark. No matter what, they’re there to keep me going.

I hope you have something that keeps you going–a personal totem, or sorts. A fount of power or a direct line to your Muse if you’re the poetic source. But something that keeps you going, keeps you writing. Something that keeps you standing on that stage, staring right back at all your fears and doubts, because believe me pal, they’re not going to be the ones to blink first. They never quite go away, either, but don’t let that stop you. In a way, they’ll keep you honest, but only if you have the wisdom to know when and when not to listen to them. It’s an interesting notion–that fear and doubt can be positive forces. It’s one of those ideas that sits right on the edge of your awareness, but we’ll have to save that discussion for another day.

For now, the key lesson to take away from this is that no matter what, you’ve already gone to the trouble of creating your stage, hiring your orchestra, and selling the tickets, so there’s no turning back now. It may start with a yip, but if you can push that to a second one, and then a third, you might just be on your way.

Keep going. Maybe you end up a ball on the floor at the end of the day, but you have to start somewhere, right?

Keep going. You never know where a yip can take you.