Beads On A String

Empty Pages

Catch that fleeing idea, pin it down and watch it grow and blossom. Your idea's a tree now, and it'll never die.

Empty pages are an accusation. They glare at you silently, but somehow seem to say a lot to you. They demand you to fill them with words and scribbles, scratched-out sentences and doodles. Their food and drink is graphite and ink and they plead with you to give them something to eat, something to sip.

Empty pages are the universal symbol of writer's block. Then, they are the bane of a writer's existance. Their smooth, shiny and utterly blank surfaces constantly chide you for your lack of ideas. You try to argue that you cannot possibly help it but your pleas and excuses fall on deaf ears.

Sometimes, other people will see you talking to thin air and deem you to be mad. But inspiration can come even from thin air. And empty pages, if they're in the right mood.

Finally, when inspiration strikes, the empty pages stop looking like deadlines and stop their incessant flow of I-told-you-so's and then they're the best friend you've never had, helping you to create your own world on them.

Empty pages are boring white sheets of paper to the uninitiated. But to those who know, they hide an invitation, urging you to unleash yourself on them. Draw, paint, sketch, doodle. Or, you can write. Stories, poems, summaries, essays. Hastily-scribbled class notes and tests and remainders. Beautifully written letters which look like ancient calligraphy. Scores of music notes dancing across five-line bars. Secrets preserved for eternity. Hidden feelings revealed. They can contain universes and the end of infinity and the Elixir of Eternal Life.

Empty pages just want to be used by someone, anyone. And I, with a pen in my hand and a head full of ideas, am ready to oblige.

Empty pages can inspire you in the weirdest, sleepiest, happiest and saddest of days. This is my inspiration for them.

Swaggie, signing off.