A Blank Page

A short story.

Today, I’m offering you something that's new to me; a short story. I love reading fiction but fiction-writing skill is one I always thought was out of my reach. I used to almost exclusively read non-fiction but it all changed when I picked up Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge. It was love from the first page. I was blown away. I remember looking at fiction writers as god-like, how could I not when they create worlds, universes? To be honest I still do. And even though I write daily in my journal and I enjoy writing essays, I’d never thought I had a tale in me to spin. Ironically, I have this approach to life that any skill can be learned… except for creating stories, apparently. And I wonder why. Is it the matter of talent? Do writers of fiction have different DNA? Anyways, I somehow (miraculously!) came up with this little story and I thought I’d share with you. But first, the story behind the story... I’m sure you’re all intrigued, ha!

I think it is safe to say that the majority of people, along with their mums and aunts, have social media accounts – even perhaps on multiple platforms – and everyone seems to be an activist these days. Do you notice that with that many people, the opinions you see are surprisingly not that varied? People are either saying, or rather repeating A or B – the buzzwords are quite a tell – and maybe a handful would say C. Interesting. Or maybe I need to spend more time and read all the comments on all of the platforms? I shudder at the thought. I guess original thoughts/ideas are rare – yes, I say this as I notice I’m number 6127354874 on the line of people who’ve thought and uttered this. Anyways, it led me to this little story… I hope you enjoy it.

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Writing - Gari Melchers. Circa 1905-1909

“There she is, I knew she’d come today. I told you, didn’t I, Twenty?” “You did,” said Twenty, “this morning. Just like you did yesterday, last week, last month.” “I can feel it, it’s going to be today. I will be set free today. I’m ready. She’s going to use that permanent ink too, I will be immortal. I just know it!” Eighteen could hardly contain herself.

But just like yesterday, and the weeks before, the months before… Eighteen remained a blank page.

The word was out now, there needed to be an intervention. All the empty pages from that journal were anxious, they wondered if they’d ever be set free into the world.

Eighteen’s mind was heavy, laden with unuttered words. “I feel that maybe Eighteen is not ready for this… the idea is too much for her to present.” Twenty broke the silence. “Do you not see the fate of the others who remained unfree, trapped in those notebooks in that corner of the room? We don’t want to be like them, surely.”

Eighteen’s heart sank. The thought that she was letting her tribe down was too much for her to bear. Why did I think I could handle this idea? Maybe they were right, it was way too big for me, I know I can do it but I fear this seed of doubt in my mind has grown into a seedling and soon enough, it would grow into a tree and dominate the landscape of my mind, casting shadows and blocking lights.

“Look, Twenty, I know you meant well, but as of now, there’s nothing we could do. Eighteen has chosen her destiny, all we can do is help her any way we can to fulfil it.” Fifty offered his thoughts. “Besides, maybe the Writer would go for other pages, who knows, maybe she’ll pick you next, Twenty. Have hope!”

Eighteen suddenly realised just how much of her Life was out of her control. When she decided what Idea she would bear, she didn’t realise that the bolder the Idea the more difficult it was to be borne. And she thought about all the cancelled Ideas that were never born into the world as the writers failed to fulfil their end of the bargain. Surely, the moment they decided to be a writer, they must know what they were in for? What’s with all this ‘not in the mood’ or ‘the kitchen needs cleaning’? Just write!

The truth is, there was nothing any of the pages could do. As fickle as it is, they can only wait for the Writer to approach. The pages, forever at the mercy of Moods or Resistance. How amazing it would be if there was something that could help her out of this jam, Eighteen thought.

Suddenly the wind blew, the Writer had left the window to the study open. She, perhaps having felt the chill from the other room, entered the study. And as she walked in, the wind blew the journal open and the blank page, Eighteen, was there for the world or rather for the Writer to see, beckoning her like a siren song. The Writer picked up her pen, looked lovingly at the blank page. “I’m ready” she whispered softly to her journal, as if it was a deeply missed companion… and she sat and started writing…

“Where do Ideas come from?”

People don’t have ideas, ideas have people. – Carl Jung.