The Empty Page

The Empty Page

Too much of this blog is devoted to me carping about my inability to write. I don’t need to be told how tiresome it is.  I know.  Believe me I know.  I go through this site on occasion looking for the  doubt countless spelling errors and grammatical gaffes, and each time I hit a carping post I wince.  I hate ’em, hate ’em, hate ’em.  A little nattering voice in my head says, “You’re only posting those things for sympathy!  Whiner, whiner, whiner!”

Yet I need to vent.  So here I am, venting.  Better here than to strangers in the grocery store, right?

Well I’d like to think so

I’m pushing forty.  No fooling, I’m growing old.  My life is no longer like that empty page up there.  It’s a novel nearing completion.

How does it read?  A combination of boring and depressing.  I have no real job.  I have no real prospects.  I have no real life.  Worse, I have no one to blame but myself for all of this.  Of coure, I am always willing to accept volunteers.  Feel free to do so in the comments section.

I haven’t had a story publish, an honest-to-God story published.  I have story idea after story idea.  The bean still burns.  I can write well and sometime I even do write well.

I just can’t seal the deal.  I can’t make a story worth a damn.

This hasn’t always been true.  And I have finished a tale or two in recent years.  Checking the fiction section of this blog should reveal at least one.  Maybe eve more than that.

Right now, though.

Right now I feel gutted.  And I don’t know why.   I have a good life.  God knows it could be worse.  yet everything is hollow.  Empty.  Endless.

Maybe it’s the recent computer loss.  Before when the devil box broke down, a new one manged to find its way home to me.  This time, things aren’t looking so hot.  It might be just me and this lap top.

Not sure that will do.

Not enough memory for the comic.  Not enough memory for notes.

Not enough.

So maybe that’s it.  Only it doesn’t feel right.   I keep thinking failing NaNoWriMo last year did it.  Only, let’s face it, I fail NaNoWriMo every year.  I hit the damn mark of 50,000 words, never doubt it, but I never finish the novel.

So, what’s the answer?  Writing, of course.  Screw the gutted feeling.  Work your way through it.

So I go to the empty page, much like the one pictured above, much like what my life once was.  I write some words.

Then I open a new file and try again.

Then I open a new file and try again.

Then I open a new file and try again.

Each failure pushes success further and further away.   I have story idea after story idea that ache to be used.  I’m pushing forty.  There is no time.  No time at all.

I look at that empty page and there is so much white.  So endless.  A blank canvas of possibilities.  A canvas of options.

A canvas of doubt.

A canvas of failure.

I am so tried of failure.

I am so tired of measuring my success on meaningless things.

I’m tired of these whiny little posts.  No fun for me, count on it.

In short, I’m tired.  I need a nap.  Or a ghost writer.  Nah, skip the latter.  And the former too.

Thus endeth the rant.  God, I hope this gets it out of my system.  At least for a little while.  Has before.

Time to get back to that empty page.  Fill it with something.

Anything.

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