Scribble

I’ve always been intimidated by blank spaces – those gaps left between things specifically. They carry so much expectation. Nicely middled things, jostled either side by things close before or quickly followed, get to hide, easily overlooked by what came before or after. But beginning again, so much more than a first attempt which comes without a history to colour it, starting over comes with that pause before, focusing attention, gathering up the weight of shadowy last attempts and emotion and success and failures. All eyes on.

I’m paralysed by it. It’s one of my least favourite traits. Get me in my stride and boy, will I go, like a champion skier down a slalom whipwhipwhip. But chances are I’ve teetered on the top for an age first. I will fail, I will fail, I say. I can’t do it as good again. It won’t be good enough, and everyone is looking and I’ll look like a fool. I can’t I can’t. 

I can, of course, and do. I’m getting better at it. Those teeters don’t last for long now.

If you open the first page of notebooks or sketchbooks in my house you’ll often find them scribbled on, the depth of my intimidation echoed in the heaviness and desperation of the line.  The more I want what follows to be something special, the more fiercely I deface. I scribble in my silly, egotistical doubts and vanity. You want to see crap, brain? See THIS. I bet what follows won’t be come close to the crapness of this. And then with that over with, with that bottom line of crap established, it’s safe to start over.

I miss blogging. I miss writing.

So this is me scribbling all over my blog.

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