It is a habit of mine when come across one of these in a store to snatch it up without so much as a second thought. I’m drawn to their hard covers and crisp, clean pages. The thought is always that one day I will fill those pages with stories and wisdom learned during the course of my ridiculous life.
But they remain blank. One was even still in it’s box, wrapped in tissue paper.
Every time I pick one up and think about putting pen to paper I stop myself. “My handwriting isn’t pretty enough,” I say. “The words aren’t good enough.” Because once in that book, it is permanent. These books are too perfect to ruin with sloppy penmanship and jumbled thoughts.
Sometimes I just stare at the lines hoping that any minute, like magic, “it” will come to me. Just one word. I just need to find that one word and the rest will follow but my mind is as blank as the page so I once again slide the notebook into a drawer or place it on a bookshelf vowing to try again another day.
The sad fact is, I’m a writer without a story. Can you think of anything worse?! Well, other than war…and famine…and dead puppies…and Republicans… Okay, so it’s not THE worst but it is very frustrating. Especially when people say, “You should write a book.”
And I don’t want to write about what I write about. I want to show you Gatsby’s world. I want to introduce you to Heathcliff. I want to make you fall in love with Mr. Darcy. I don’t want to write about poop, beer, and…more poop. I want to make you feel the sadness of Ophelia going mad and mourn her death. I want to create characters that stay with you forever.
One day. Maybe. Until then I continue to stare at the pages waiting for an epiphany.