As a writer, the blank page does a better job of scaring the shit out of me than downing a boxful of Ex-Lax tablets because it’s the only chocolate in the house.
An artist staring at a blank canvas.
A violinist poised in front of an empty piece of sheet music.
A photographer loading a fresh roll of film (you remember film, don’t you?) into her camera.
A chef gazing at a multitude of ingredients on the counter.
A real estate agent scrutinizing her latest listing.
You gazing at your creation tool of choice.
Whatever your art form, the blank anything can either inspire you to invent or prompt you to paralysis.
Imagine the fear Michelangelo felt as he stood before that colossal piece of marble that would transform into David.
Whether you identify as a writer, musician, photographer, chef, computer geek, parent, or any other type of artist is irrelevant. We all emerge from the womb with a blank page on which to write our story.
The blank page is a metaphor for life. To live, we must continue creating. When we stop creating, we stagnate. And when we stagnate, we waste our lives defending our original story instead of re-writing it and adapting it to who we become along our journey.
We stop listening, we stop questioning, and we stop growing. We start trying to convince others that our story is a bestseller and their stories are just jumbled words on a page.
Let’s switch metaphors to further illustrate this point.
When we stop coloring outside the lines and insist on living within the neatly defined outlines by which we have always identified, we die.
Every day is a blank page, a blank canvas, a masterpiece, a David waiting to be released from the shackles of the marble in which it lives.
What will you fill your page with today?
Trading Barbs With Barb 