The blank page

Imagine a blank sheet of paper in front of you, or a blank screen. It's yours to fill, but with what? In the pantheon of scary imaginings, this scenario ranks maybe a 1. Or less. But it's still scary.

My writing career, such as it is, could be called Katy Interrupted. I go for long stretches with nothing to say. That's because I'm thinking. I'm also reading, admiring some writers and being exasperated by others. Yet they birth words, sentences, essays articles daily, weekly, monthly, yearly. My words gestate.

Despite my erratic output, I've learned the important skill of editing. Here's how I work: I pour everything out, onto paper or screen. Then I read it; maybe keep some or none. Tinkering and more tinkering come next. Then usually a walk, preferably with a dog. Thinking ensues, then maybe a break for coffee or napping, or work. Then comes wholesale revision or reconsideration of concept. B often ends up looking nothing like A.

What else have I learned? A pretty package of words is usually just pebbles in a sieve. Not intrinsically worthless, but not gold, either. Coming up with something precious takes a lot of panning. (Sorry for the labored metaphor.)

I've worked with writers who think their every keystroke is golden. Who think breaking all rules, instead of just one, for effect, makes them fearless and therefore brilliant.

No.

To write when you have nothing to say, to write and be unafraid to discard, that's fearless and approaching brilliant. To write and have a great editor, that's gold.

The photo is from one of my many diaries.