I came across this old piece "what I wrote" 10 years ago. It made me smile so I thought I'd share it:
Zen and the art of writing
Nobody knows, as a writer knows, the panic that can be instilled by the sight of a blank piece of paper.
Well, OK. Some Illustrators might. And artists if one uses license and allow that a canvas is in fact nothing more that a deluxe sheet of paper. And certain graphic and packaging designers.
Printers.
Printers panic at the sight of a blank piece of paper, especially when it is at the "finished" end of the printing machine.
And possibly people who are particularly paper-phobic.
I'll start again.
It is a small band of people who will know the panic that can be permeate from a blank sheet of paper. Especially one to which there is attached the spectre of the word deadline. A word that has been carefully designed for maximum impact. A word that has been distilled and filtered of superfluous letters. A word that means "If I don't get this done I will be hanged, drawn, quartered, sacked, my nostrils raped and my entrails impaled on a spike." More or less.
Once a writer has pondered the exact meaning of the word deadline he is doomed. He may as well lay his head on the writers block at once and wait for the axe. Clear your mind. Take a few deep-breathing exercises, though preferably not while on the phone, and try one of these few simple tricks.
One idea is to take the offending blank piece of paper by surprise. Approach the paper with your back towards it and whip around to face it at the last moment. Or crawl along the floor under your desk and pop up when it isn't looking. With a bit of luck you will have startled it into acquiescence. Another method is to casually appear to be doing something else then suddenly start typing. Once there is a mark on the paper it is no longer blank and will loose its power over your mind. The theory goes. It hasn't happened for me yet or this column would have been completely different.
Once your first marks are on the paper, this holds true for any written word - including shopping lists, you must become one with the paper and with yourself. That makes three. Three's a crowd so one of you can bugger off down the pub, or while away a few hours with that amateur proctologist kit and let the other two get on with the work. At this point you must not give in to the temptation to overdo it and become four or five with yourself in the hope that you will be able to finish all those little jobs around the house. Never, ever attempt to become eleven with yourself and form a hockey team. It only leads to arguments and one of you will have forgotten to bring your calico knickers. And while this is no doubt amusing to the huddle of small schoolboys that gravitate to the edges of hockey fields it will all end in tears and chilblanes.
So, you've surprised your piece of paper and made your mark, OK so it was a sweat mark but it’s a start. You have become one with the paper and your pen making a threesome. Enlightenment dawns at this point as you realise why there aren't any funny articles about writers block. Inspiration strikes and you ponder the idea of handing in the still blank paper to your editor, and telling him that it is a conceptual piece containing the truth, and nothing but the truth about writer's block. "Its a masterpiece you tell yourself", rehearsing your speech to the editor. "It's high art, could even win the Turner prize with the addition of some small pieces of elephant dung."
Writing is a lonely art, as I was saying to myself the other day at the Lonely Arts Club. I spend a lot of time down there since I was fired.
Hello….?
Zen and the art of writing
Nobody knows, as a writer knows, the panic that can be instilled by the sight of a blank piece of paper.
Well, OK. Some Illustrators might. And artists if one uses license and allow that a canvas is in fact nothing more that a deluxe sheet of paper. And certain graphic and packaging designers.
Printers.
Printers panic at the sight of a blank piece of paper, especially when it is at the "finished" end of the printing machine.
And possibly people who are particularly paper-phobic.
I'll start again.
It is a small band of people who will know the panic that can be permeate from a blank sheet of paper. Especially one to which there is attached the spectre of the word deadline. A word that has been carefully designed for maximum impact. A word that has been distilled and filtered of superfluous letters. A word that means "If I don't get this done I will be hanged, drawn, quartered, sacked, my nostrils raped and my entrails impaled on a spike." More or less.
Once a writer has pondered the exact meaning of the word deadline he is doomed. He may as well lay his head on the writers block at once and wait for the axe. Clear your mind. Take a few deep-breathing exercises, though preferably not while on the phone, and try one of these few simple tricks.
One idea is to take the offending blank piece of paper by surprise. Approach the paper with your back towards it and whip around to face it at the last moment. Or crawl along the floor under your desk and pop up when it isn't looking. With a bit of luck you will have startled it into acquiescence. Another method is to casually appear to be doing something else then suddenly start typing. Once there is a mark on the paper it is no longer blank and will loose its power over your mind. The theory goes. It hasn't happened for me yet or this column would have been completely different.
Once your first marks are on the paper, this holds true for any written word - including shopping lists, you must become one with the paper and with yourself. That makes three. Three's a crowd so one of you can bugger off down the pub, or while away a few hours with that amateur proctologist kit and let the other two get on with the work. At this point you must not give in to the temptation to overdo it and become four or five with yourself in the hope that you will be able to finish all those little jobs around the house. Never, ever attempt to become eleven with yourself and form a hockey team. It only leads to arguments and one of you will have forgotten to bring your calico knickers. And while this is no doubt amusing to the huddle of small schoolboys that gravitate to the edges of hockey fields it will all end in tears and chilblanes.
So, you've surprised your piece of paper and made your mark, OK so it was a sweat mark but it’s a start. You have become one with the paper and your pen making a threesome. Enlightenment dawns at this point as you realise why there aren't any funny articles about writers block. Inspiration strikes and you ponder the idea of handing in the still blank paper to your editor, and telling him that it is a conceptual piece containing the truth, and nothing but the truth about writer's block. "Its a masterpiece you tell yourself", rehearsing your speech to the editor. "It's high art, could even win the Turner prize with the addition of some small pieces of elephant dung."
Writing is a lonely art, as I was saying to myself the other day at the Lonely Arts Club. I spend a lot of time down there since I was fired.
Hello….?
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