The struggle starts every day with a new blank page. In the light spectrum, white indicates the presence of all color, and it is chaos. It is random, empty void, without life or substance. White is the color of death, the color of stagnation.
Black is the absence of light, but it is solid and real. It stands in stark contrast to the empty chaos of the white page. The color black is land, and it is water. It is order, providing meaning in a world that has none.
Black is the tool I craft worlds with, and white is the screaming void, appalled that I might sully its unending perfection.
Every blank page is a new laboratory, and every writer is God in their laboratory. Not a just, merciful god, one who offers no struggles to their followers. No, writers are cruel deities who decree that people must suffer in order to grow. Writers insist upon placing hidden meaning behind every tragedy, every disaster.
Every day, I’m presented with a new blank page, and another chance to breathe life into characters who couldn’t exist without my help. Every day, I take black “ink” and apply it to the white pages, building worlds, birthing people, shaping lives.
It’s empowering, and it fills me with a joy that simply cannot be put into words. In this act of creation, the writer’s laboratory of the blank page is never dull. This is what separates writers from other people. Where others see only a blank page, a writer sees a cosmos of inifinite possiblities.
