The blank page is always fun, isn’t it? I can remember when I was in my twenties and the endless possibilities that a blank page held were energizing. Thrilling. I couldn’t wait to very literally dive in — like it was a pool full of idea molecules that somehow magically bound to my being and if I just writhed on it, in it, or over it, it would magically turn into something spectacular because after all, I WAS spectacular and the world was waiting for me.
I’m 42 now. Ideas are born at a slower, more controlled pace. I like to think I still have some spectacular in me, but the white page… that very, very white page has a bit of a different effect. It isn’t scary. It’s a more realistic version of potentiality. My ideas are bigger. It’s only natural that they’ll take time to come to fruition right?
Guess there’s only one way to find out.
Swandive. No splash.