The Empty Page

I couldn't write this morning. The will was there -- I dragged myself out of bed at 7:45, made coffee, got the old laptop out, did a prewriting exercise.

The prewriting exercises are supposed to send my mind to different areas than usual. So if I make a list title, Things That Are Blue by Nature, I have to start picturing hikes through the woods, ocean vacations, types of minerals I may dimly remember from natural history museums, etc. Then I make a list, Things People Make Blue, and I start picturing women's makeup, hotel drapes, medical equipment trimming, etc. (Things People Make Blue was a hard one).

Sometimes I write a page or two about a subject I might write about in the novel. Sometimes I write poems that are fanciful and meaning-free. I end up liking those the best. Today I wrote one about some dead swans.

But then I go over to my novel and I just sit there. Picturing blueberries and cornflowers and blue eyeshadow has been fun, but it hasn't been the key to unlocking the mysterious chamber somewhere deep inside of me called Clarity.

Oh so what? Is the world going to stop if one more novel isn't produced?

This is all dross, completely bogus. I actually had some reasonable ideas today, I just had them after I got to work -- actually I had them at the gym, where I usually get decent ideas.

I'm just complaining because it's my default mode -- because when things are good I quickly drag dark underbrush across them so they can't be seen or felt -- I open my mouth to share good feelings and black toads tumble out.