The blank page shouts at me.

“You can’t fill me up. How could you possibly improve on all the wonderful potential I hold?”

It puts me on the backfoot. The white space has a point.

My imagination is splatting ideas all over it; gunmen in hovercrafts over eel infested swamps, a sketch of a laughing banana, an anachronistic story about the importance of names, the mathematical proof of love.

Meanwhile my hand can’t even pick up the pen. The biro whispers to me. “Come on! The ink inside me’s no use just sitting here.”

Then it clicks. Its the potential of the ideas I’m improving on, not that of the paper. That’s meant to help me, with no barriers or correction. Freedom may be scary, but its necessary to let the story grow.

And anyway, if I write really small there’ll be plenty of space left.


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