Addiction to the Blank Page
Photo Courtesy House of Sims
Call it a fetish or an affinity; I am an addict. I am addicted to the process of writing.
There is nothing so quietly thrilling in my life as fresh, untouched paper. A new notebook, a fresh ream, or new stationary excites me as nothing else can.
The scent of new paper is intoxicating. The feel is cool and promising. The texture, the lines (or their absence), the way it feels under my pen…ahhhh, heaven.
Flipping to a new journal page can evoke a reaction almost as strong. The thrill is not as acute, but the promise is there. A journal in progress is a thing begun. A new notebook or loose paper is a thing of anticipation…the chance to take a new road, explore something outlandish, or begin a new chapter of thought. Sometimes it brings the opportunity to be surprised.
My friend once said she believed I was somehow chemically addicted to paper. She couldn’t otherwise make sense of my need to have paper near me or the way I delighted in setting a pen in motion. I tried to explain. It is the tactile sensation of the act of writing that I crave. More than what forms on the page, more than what I might care to say, it is the act of writing I must have. The blank page is the signal; the invitation to indulge my craving.
I know there’s more to it, though it is hard to explain, even on paper. There is some part of my mind that empties directly to the page. When I write in that state of heavy expectation, I am usually surprised at what the page reveals. As much as I crave and need the act of moving the pen across the page, as addicted as I am to paper, I MUST empty that part of my mind. To refuse is unthinkable. To ignore this need might rob me of my sanity.
That’s what it means to be a writer. As Natalie Goldberg put it: for some of us, writing is our process.
Writers are writers by virtue of the fact that they cannot NOT write. Whether they pursue it as a career, fulfill the need in abundant correspondence, or confine it to a personal journal, a writer must write…or wither. There is no choice to be made.
I’ve been challenged to just step away from the pen. I can’t. Paper is possibility, opportunity, and anticipation. The physical act of writing is calming, centering, and comforting. The need to do this…to give voice to a part of me that communicates no other way…is something I embrace. I am an addict. I am okay with that.
I must be an addict too–I love the scent of paper as well.
And there’s no way I can stop writing; it’s just part of me. I think it has been since before I even knew how to write 
I’ve heard the story from my grandmother several times. As soon as I was old enough to hold a crayon, I was “writing” on everything I could find, lol.
My idea of a nightmare would be a world in which writing was forbidden. Just haul me off to the loony bin because I’d go crazy!
Good to see you again, Dara!