I collect tablets of all shapes and sizes. My love of tablets may not equal my love of books, but my fascination with their blank pages is a potent one nonetheless. It’s the tantalizing, and highly frustrating, blank pages I want to talk about today.
Every time I buy a new tablet, it marks a potential moment of discovery, of possibility. All too often I open that new tablet, stare at the first page, and then close the cover with regret. I want perfection to grace the pages of my lovely tablet, and at those moments, I’m keenly aware that perfect I am not.
The pristine tablet is both the bane and the highest hope of my writing life. As I stare at the bookshelf that holds my tablet collection, I’m caught up in words I hope will one day fill their pages, but I hesitate.
I know I’m not the only writer who stares at the blank page and wonders if what they’ll write will be enough. The other day a friend complimented some recent writing, and I replied that my efforts to stick to a regular writing schedule were less than successful. I confessed that it seemed all I wanted to do of late was read other people’s words. He wisely noted that, “Reading leads to writing.”
Practicing With Other People’s Words
Last Saturday, I listened to an interview on Fresh Air with author Donald Ray Pollock. To teach himself how to write, he used a time-honored tradition of typing out other people’s stories to practice. And I wondered, how does that work for someone who writes nonfiction (like me)? Does the same principle apply?
It does, but not in the ways you might imagine. At some point, the author of whatever book I have opened in front of me stared at a blank page, and somehow, they started putting words on it. The sheer volume of bound words that decorates my shelves stands as a testament to another battle won against the blank page. And it gives me hope that the next time I’ll win my battle.
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This reminds me a bit of the hangup I used to have with blank sheets of drawing paper. I had associated “drawing” and “art” with finished work in my mind for the longest time, until a coworker artist and I were working on a spaceship concept together (we were at a game company). As he started to draw, I asked if he knew what was going to come out, and he said, “nope. It works itself out.” And that is how I learned that a large part of drawing is thinking on the paper. All that thinking on paper is a form of practice and problem solving; the finished art follows from that.
One of my college English professor told me I had first draftitis. I was obsessed with writing a piece once and then being done. He reminded me that the first round doesn’t have to be perfect, but you have to start somewhere. It’s a lesson I need to remember more often.