There is nothing quite as menacing as the blank page. Not spiders, not tax letters, not even an unexpected knock on the door when you’re wearing pyjamas at 2 p.m. A blank page has a particular smugness to it, as if it’s daring you to try something, anything, and reminding you that every great work ever written began exactly where you’re sitting now: confused, caffeinated, and slightly sweaty.
Every new writer believes the blank page is the enemy. In reality, the blank page is the easiest part of writing, just wait until the editing stage. The real challenge is managing the perfectionist living rent-free in your skull. That inner voice whispers, “Better make it perfect,” which is a lovely sentiment unless you actually want to get anything done. First drafts are meant to be awful. Ugly. Chaotic. The literary equivalent of a toddler’s finger painting: enthusiastic, messy, and not fit for public consumption.
The best cure is lowering your expectations. Then lower them again, now once again for luck. Good. Now write something mediocre. The moment you stop demanding brilliance, the words arrive. Sometimes in clumps. Sometimes sideways. But they arrive.
Write badly with pride. Tell the blank page, “I will fill you, even if it’s nonsense.” That courage is what separates writers from people who merely talk about writing. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can fix a messy one. Once the words exist, they can be rearranged, pruned, polished, and gently bullied into competence.
So the next time you stare at an empty document and feel that familiar wave of dread, remember: the page is not your enemy. The silence is. Break it. Even with three wonky sentences and a cup of tea sloshed dangerously close to your keyboard. That’s writing. That’s progress. And it’s infinitely less frightening once you begin.
Time to stop procrastinating and to start writing book two of my new series…
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