A
new document opens up on the screen, clear, white and in the ‘Page Layout’
view. It’s as close to a blank sheet of paper as the computer can offer and
therefore equally threatening.
Blank
like his mind, clear like his head of ideas. It’s odd really because he wasn’t
one of those people who ‘had a novel in them’. Indeed he’d rarely had much more
than short story in his life but here he was facing the page. Staring and
thinking he began to see his reflection in the white vacant space.
Fifty
years old, confused, questioning and looking for some feeling of hope. So he
had challenged himself to write.
Now
he knew from conversations, from television interviews and from articles that real
writers built a skeleton. Mapped out a plot. Refined it, shaped it, played with
and then put pen to paper – or skin to key. But he wasn’t/isn’t a proper writer
so why not try another approach and just write.
It
was bound to be rubbish but he would at least have something to start with. A
mark on the page that could produce doodle or masterpiece. Well being honest it
was going to be a doodlesketch but at least that was something.
So
here goes he thinks and suddenly develops a desire for a cup tea and slice of distraction.
