If there’s one thing that can throw a writer into an existential crisis, it’s a blank page.
There’s a duality to blank pages. On the one hand, they are this gaping maw—a void that demands to be filled. And for writers, that means pouring in bits of the soul, chunking memories and ideas and passions at the void in hopes of finally being rid of that blank, white emptiness.
On the other hand, the blank page is also a blank canvas. It’s a place where ideas can be planted, take root, and bloom into something miraculous. There is no limit to what can be done on the blank page—it can’t ever run out of room for the ideas that pour from the writer’s soul. Far from being a prison, it is liberation. It is art unfettered.