The scariest book I own is sitting in my office, on my desk. I’ve only opened it once since it was given to me, and frankly, I don’t know when I’ll open it again. I know right where it is though. Just to the left of my computer monitor, nestled between the thesaurus and Strunk and White. Oh, on occasion, I’ll pull it out and look at the cover, with the colorful, enchanting scene from “Dinotopia” (which, in case you didn’t know, is a fun, fictitious, and decidedly un-scary world created by James Gurney). But I don’t open it.
In the next room, I have four similar books. Not nearly so colorful, having solid green cloth covers and bindings, but still almost equally scary. They wait there for me, there on the shelf, like four little sentinels, biding their time. I don’t see them every day, but I know they’re there. Sometimes I feel like they know I’m here too, but that could be just another one of my little neuroses. In any case, they’re waiting.
So what is it that is so terrifying about these books? What is it about them that is so horrifying? Are they works by Poe, or Stephen King? Do they tell tales of mystery and horror? No. They are something far more sinister. They’re empty.
Not empty of pages. Oh no. In fact that’s one thing they have in abundance. Several hundred pristine, white pages. They’re chuck full of pages, but empty of words. Knowing my desire to be an author, my insatiable need to write, they stand silently in the bookcase, and wait. For me. For my words. For my hand to make that first stroke – that single irrevocable mark on the first clean page.
Every writer at one point or another, has faced the blank page, and had to wrestle with his or her doubts…”Can I do this?”, “Do I have something to say?”, “Can I say it?” The words pile up inside of you, blocked by the white demon sitting boldly before you, taunting you. Mocking you. Making you question the gift that you have and the craft that you’ve chosen. Now imagine that doubt multiplied by 200, evenly cut and neatly bound. Pick up this book, and you have in your hands a thing of simple beauty. Each page exactly like the previous; exactly like the next. Perfect. Crisp. White. One touch of the pen and all of that changes – the pristine beauty is gone and you are solely responsible for what will replace or restore it. You have to ask yourself if you truly do have something to say…something that warrants the defacing of these perfect pages. And it’s scary, because your dreams and desires lie in your answers to those questions.
So what, you may ask, can I do? It would seem I’m at an impasse. Afraid to write; afraid not to. And all the while, those damn books sit there waiting for me to decide. Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret. In my living room there is yet another book. A book whose pages were once blank as well, but in which you’ll now find, lovingly scribed by my own hand, some of the poetry and lyrics that I’ve written. How is this possible, given everything I’ve said so far? It’s a trick, of course, and I’ll let you in on it: everything in this book was born elsewhere – on napkins in airplanes, old notebooks, the backs of parking tickets in the car. Nothing went into this book until I had already decided I liked it. I’ve even edited and revised some of the pieces in there, so it has become more of a work in progress – a little historical compilation marking a journey, rather than a single finished work.
So basically, I cheated. Sue me.
The point is, as scary as these books are, they also represent an opportunity. One day they may be the vessel into which my best work flows. They may be the vehicle that takes my thoughts and feelings beyond me, out into the world. For now, they are my challenge, and I’ll use them as best I can. After all, there are plenty more of them out there waiting.
(Oh yeah, so why is the Dinotopia-covered book scarier than the others? Because it was a gift. A gift from a cousin who has faith in me, and who believes that I can write the next great novel. Uh, thanks Rob, like I needed the extra pressure…)
I have similar books and only use them for a) journals, b) writing journals, and c) a place to write down the magnetic poetry that I put together on the back of a cookie sheet. I can’t write anything creative in them; I’m an obsessive editor, and the first draft is never the last.