What I Fear Most
What I fear most, I realized today*, is not the blank page, but the words I might put on it, but don’t — (* I’ve always known this, but it has only now drifted from my subconscious to my conscious. This, then, lends more permanence to words than I give credit, not just that once they are thought, spoken or written, words cannot be taken back, even when the page is shredded, the thought banished, the spoken gobbled up by the negative space between humans, but that today, each word represents a sort of technological irony: words on the internet may be deleted, but they will continue to exist somewhere where deletion can no longer touch them… a download, a printed screen, a scribe scribbling a copy of your words into a cahier or a moleskin.)
I think that is telling — will I explore it further, will I tackle those words I fear might fill the blank page? I make no promises. An author has a duty to be honest. Is silence or a blank page a form of dishonesty? Write from the heart it says, but perhaps a measure of pain is the real inhibitor, not the critic, self or otherwise.