because i'm here...and i might as well try

I sometimes think I approach a blank page with less respect than it deserves. I sit with my fingertips gently resting on letters that have yet to form words, even in my mind. In other words.... I approach with nothing to say. In a perfect world within this moment the blank page on which i sit would muster up the disdain to manifest an arm right out of it's blankness and slap the pen right out of my hand because it was affronted by my apathy and my ego to prove said apathy. As if I believe that my careless thoughts deserve to be permanent. But there is so much pressure on me to write. Granted most of it is self inflicted but it's solid pressure none the less. I'm haunted by the voice in my head that says "if you were a writer than you would write... duh" (and yes my internal voice says duh ....all the time) But it's not that simple.... i have all these brilliant thoughts during the day that plague me in the moment with such intensity that I'm convinced , right there, that i could write a novel that spirals deeply off this one thought.... and then my mind reels for another thirty seconds in the fantasy of it all.I envision myself at book signings, on Oprah (before she quit to own a channel) , and even catching flack in the news for my disparaging comments on Stephanie Meyers supposed talent. But when this daydream bubble is popped by the sounds of the outside world around me, the worst thing happens... the moment passes... and a few minutes later i can't even recall the thought.

I used to carry a composition book around with me everywhere i went, along with a fine tip R.S.V.P pen (because it's the only pen that feels good in your hand for anything over a page and a half.... seriously ... less cramping). I don't remember when i stopped doing that religiously but it saved many a thought at the time. Writing used to be something i loved intimately (it still is) but it used to be something that relieved pressure... That composition book i carried everywhere was full of secrets, and moments, and thoughts about moments that i would never have the courage to say aloud but a select few would get to read... I used to love watching the face of someone as they read a passage. Watching their eyes roll like a tennis match back and forth across a page that i wrote words on. I would study their faces for the slightest expression with so much anticipation rushing through my body like adrenaline as i waited for some sign that they were enjoying my words. It was an incredible feeling to know that a simple composition book held so much power... i swear the weight of it in my purse actually made me stand up straighter. Writing used to feel free and there was a time when i realized that those college ruled dead trees knew more about me than anyone in the world. That is what writing was for me, and still is deep inside me.

But as i grew up it seemed to become something a bit violated. Instead of inside jokes and private thoughts, it became something subjected to unsolicited judgement. It's funny how people feel they have the right to criticize what they themselves don't have the balls to even attempt. As though they could possibly understand what the feel of a new pen gliding across a textured piece of paper can do for the soul. I used to get excited to write nothing just for the feel of it. In fact some of my high school diaries are filled with what look like standards.... just pages of "i like my new pen" written over and over again. I love the physical movements of writing as much as the words it creates. Pardon my tangent, but it seems as though now i am writing for an outcome. I write to finish, i rush towards completion while eagerly handing drafts to people to scrutinize at their leisure. I get blocked and stuck while re writing the beginning of a script for the 9th time because it doesn't make sense to me anymore. I spend more time worrying about the "notes" I'll get and then analyze my hatred of going back to adjust the story based on one persons "professional" opinion. It becomes a race fostered only by my dying motivation i often claim is "writers block".

Maybe I write less lately because i am protecting what is the marrow of my being. Maybe i don't approach a blank page with too little respect, but rather too much and i will not let it be violated anymore.

Maybe i should just go back to carrying my secrets around in a simple composition book and allow the feel of my trusty R.S.V.P pen in my hand to remove the stress from my life.

Dear what was once a blank computer page,

thank you for your time!

P.S to anyone who reads this... i am not ready to re read this just yet so please excuse whatever typo's, missing words, and terrible grammar is in there. It is the consequence of stream of consciousness.