The enemy of all writers is the blank page.
It paralyses us, doesn’t it? Electronic or hard copy, the block is the same. As much as I love new notebooks, they’re also terrifying. If they’re particularly beautiful, I can never bring myself to write in them. I have two types – the scrappy, spiral-bound nothingy type for making scrappy lists and jotting down inane thoughts. And the works of art that get displayed on my office shelves and will only get written in on the distant day when I have a thought worthy of them.
The first post here was always going to be a toughie because it feels stupidly portentuous, despite the fact that I know not a single person will ever read it.
So I decided to get it out of the way as quickly as possible.
It’s my blogging equivalent of the blank page, weighted down with expectation and ideals.
So now there are words.
Next time there might be books…