A blank page, I think, is both my best friend and my worst enemy.
There is so much potential in a blank page, isn’t there? I could start writing and end up anywhere. I could land myself somewhere soft, a cozy little house with a cozy little fireplace in a cozy little town, where someone suddenly and mysteriously turns up dead. I could drop you in a kingdom of ruin, knights turned mercenaries, dragons running around like vermin, magic abused and mistrusted, and a cruel queen ruling over it all. Or maybe something a little lighter, a meet cute story where you already know the ending, but you read anyways because you live for a good, simple romance. I could write anything. Anything could happen.
And yet, think of the everything that could be, my page remains blank. Why? Approaching a blank canvas is terrifying. It’s so pretty in its simplicity. There’s so much ahead in the process, and nothing behind. How do you pick one thing out of the everything to put down? What if you don’t do it justice? A blank canvas is so promising, and so, so scary.
And then the pen or pencil or marker or brush hits, and even if it isn’t perfect, even if it’s completely wrong, something almost magical happens. There’s something behind you now. The project is started, and you can see the end. It’s possible. It’s within reach and you will get there.