We don’t go to the page to make friends. We go to see something other and apart from who we are. – Jodi Angel
The blank page is not your friend. It is unknown territory and, therefore, undetermined as friend or foe. You write on the page, perhaps a little tentatively, unsure if the ice will hold your weight.
Sometimes it does. Sometimes, the page is your friend. You track the page much as an ice skater on fresh ice does. Your skates don’t catch. You try new tricks because you can, no, because you must. Fresh ice is still unknown ice. You feel the curiosity of what you can accomplish on such a surface and explore it.
Other times, the ice is pockmarked. You pick your way carefully. The writing comes in spurts because you’re conscious of the treacherous areas. You don’t want to twist your ankle or fall on your face. You skate. Carefully, carefully.
The page sometimes isn’t even pockmarked. It’s thin in places and breaks under the least amount of pressure. You race to cross the ice before you fall into the freezing water. The words come in a rush. You get to the other side and feel the adrenaline and exhilaration coursing in your veins. You want to go again, but, when you turn to look back, there is no way back. You have to continue forward, perhaps to ice that will hold your weight and allow you to glide across its mirrored surface or perhaps to ice that trips you or crumbles, crumbles.
Whatever kind of ice you encounter, you find yourself exploring something new – something new found within the surface itself and, most likely, something new within yourself. You don’t go the page to make friends. You go to it to explore and to see what happens when you venture farther onto it.
Image: JoshArdlePhotography (Creative Commons)