the big bad blank page

Hello. *raises hand* I’m a writer, and, um… I’m afraid of a blank page.

For several months now, I’ve talked/dreamed/blogged about taking up drawing as my secondary hobby (which means that in terms of priorities it has to fall way below things like “putting away laundry” and “cleaning the oven”). I’ve bought and borrowed how-to books. I got myself fancy pencils and a fancy sketchbook. I hunted around for local drawing classes for when I am no longer continuously attached to my little nursing buddy here.

But I never got around to actually putting my fancy pencil on my fancy paper and so much as drawing a line.

And I finally figured out why. It wasn’t that I had no time (if I have time to follow Internet rabbit trails, I have time to draw!). It was quite simply, a fear of the blank page.

You may laugh. As a writer, I have no problem filling up the (metaphorical) paper with lots and lots of words. Even if those words are just “blah, blah, blah”, heh. If I don’t have the mental energy to work on a story, I journal or do a writing exercise. Blank pages are meant to be written on.

But not drawn on, apparently.

So, the other week, I got out this book of drawing prompts and sat down one evening to doodle, scribble and color like a little kid. I got through four pages and was hit by a complete short story idea while drawing bricks. This is my kind of drawing course.