Why is a blank page so intimidating?

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Is it my fear of being caught as a poor artist, or the avoidance of the inner critics that will start their unforgiving live commentary the minute I write the first word?

Is it boredom, or is it a deep longing for something to happen, for something to ignite a spark that I cannot stop myself from writing, or is it the waiting for a red carpet of eager readers to be laid, a cosy blanket of recognised credibility and the clouds in the sky cheering for me through their shapes? 

Is it the system that taught me to fill pages with what I memorised, so much so that I don’t know how to cherish the pause that comes before painting a blank canvas with my imagination?

Is it the fear of disrupting the pristine beauty of what lies before me, is it that I don’t think what I’ll create will be worthy enough for this page to be wasted, is it the subliminal messaging I received that I have to be like Midas and turn everything I touch into nothing but gold, is it the fear of cutting, wasting some space, using the backspace key too much, the pen’s ink drying up like my throat chokes whenever I cannot express my distress, the page being taken away when I feel ready.

Is it that creativity has no inherent value of its own and is redundant if I am not the best or at par with those revered? 

Is it the fear of creating something I love and watching it never seeing the light of day, of it not reaching people’s eyes, of it not being recognised and appreciated, like a parent with a child she sees great potential in but has to watch her not finding her due place in the world - but does the existence of the child is conditional on the treatment the world gives her?

Is it that I don’t want to create a child unless I have a guarantee it will receive accolades, and by her means, I will? Is it that I have yet not learnt to love unconditionally, to know that creating sustains me, invigorates me, that the page will give me far more than I can ever give it, that it has its own destiny, and I can’t take ownership of it because I filled it with some ink. 

Is it a writer’s block, as they say? Isn’t that just like a rock in a river and I can flow across it, over it and maybe, completely dislodge it with sheer force of my flow? Is it the fear of being naked, of the ideas that lay peacefully in my psyche who have long given up hopes of exposure, like a child from whom love was withheld for so long that she will freeze in shock if you hugged her?

Is it the fear of creating something that I myself cannot deal with, cannot face, cannot look at again, almost in shame, for not letting it out earlier and not knowing what to do with it now? 

I don’t know what is it, and I’m scared, I cannot write. 

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