Nothing is a blank page, an empty mind, too little sleep, and a present deadline. But the value of nothing is generally underrated. What use is a bowl without the emptiness inside? What use is a door without a hole to walk through? So here I go, wandering here and there among the words, like a hermit wanders among the woods, noticing this and that, aimless and happy.
As writers, we tend to think writing is a big deal. The more serious we are about it, the bigger a deal it must be. How else will we lend weight to our words? Even, how else will we give purpose to our lives? But all our thoughts are only thoughts. All our words are only words. In the very next moment or in ten billion years they will all amount to nothing. And life is beautiful without any purpose whatsoever.
So if you’re facing a blank page and you’ve got nothing. Don’t despair. In fact, empty yourself even more! Forget the writer you imagine yourself to be or not be. Wipe away all the memories of an ancient past. Discard all predictions of an uncertain future. Beneath your left heel stomp out fear, and beneath your right heel crush all hope. Empty yourself completely. Become nothing … a blank page. And you will see: it is from this nothing, and nothing else, that all things have their origin.
The world itself is made of poetry.
Just notice, and transcribe.