A blank page. That's what all writers are confronted with as we lift out foot to take the first step on a journey of creation. Whether it be a screenplay, a poem, a novel or any number of literary exuberances underlying shades of comedy, tragedy, terror and fear, we all begin with a lovely, deep, fresh bright white page of possibility. How fabulous.
From then on though, from that moment onward it's a black and white war of character against plot against style against genre. An uphill, burning, monochrome battle to forge something so colourful it barely registers in our visual spectrum. A writer's responsibilities are not unlike a parent. We are constantly nurturing our ideas, feeding our notions and ensuring our babies don't end up screwed up in a bin in the corner of the room. We balance budget with brilliance, tension with tone and all the time drag our minds through every detail of our work over and over again. And it's work indeed. Hard work. Wonderful work.
Russell T Davies once mentioned that writing was an addiction. And it is. It's a beast burning inside us which hath no regard for time or place. It demands we pour ourselves onto that blank page and discover new realms and realities through a mere twenty four shapes in various, almost inexhaustible variations in long horizontal lines. It's rather beautiful, in a minimalist sort of way.
If there were a way to click ones fingers and have had written a masterpiece, somehow I don't think I'd take that option. It may be a mammoth slog taking that first step across the snowy plane of possibility, but it's one I personally relish with terminal enthusiasm.
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