As a writer, I have a terrible fear of the “blank page”. Sometimes I wonder what leads me to constantly confront this fear! If someone were to ask me if I love writing, I wouldn’t know how to give a straightforward answer. It seems more like I am compelled to write rather than “love” it because in a very real sense, I fear I cannot write, fear I am not good enough at it, fear I am an impostor, etc and so on. It might be more appropriate to say that I love being “done writing” to survey what I have written and then I might begin to love it. But the start of the process is an infinitely excruciating one and I would do anything to put off looking at that blank page… staring at me, mocking me :)

The following extract spoke to me…

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If one wants to be active, one mustn’t be afraid to do something wrong sometimes, not afraid to lapse into some mistakes. To be good — many people think that they’ll achieve it by doing no harm — and that’s a lie… That leads to stagnation, to mediocrity. Just slap something on it when you see a blank canvas staring at you with a sort of imbecility.

You don’t know how paralyzing it is, that stare from a blank canvas that says to the painter you can’t do anything. The canvas has an idiotic stare, and mesmerizes some painters so that they turn into idiots themselves.

Many painters are afraid of the blank canvas, but the blank canvas IS AFRAID of the truly passionate painter who dares — and who has once broken the spell of “you can’t.”

Life itself likewise always turns towards one an infinitely meaningless, discouraging, dispiriting blank side on which there is nothing, any more than on a blank canvas.

But however meaningless and vain, however dead life appears, the man of faith, of energy, of warmth, and who knows something, doesn’t let himself be fobbed off like that. He steps in and does something, and hangs on to that, in short, breaks, “violates”…

~ Van Gogh in a letter to Theo, October 2, 1884