Staring At The Blank Page Before You Novels & Stories

Eloise The apartment was too quiet. I sat at my drafting table, pencil poised above fresh paper, but the lines wouldn’t come. Ideas flickered at the edges of my mind, fragments of shape, texture, color, but the moment I tried to capture them, they scattered like startled birds. I stared at the blank page until my eyes blurred. Outside, the city pulsed, horns, sirens, voices. Life went on. But in here, in this small cocoon where I should’ve felt safe, I felt nothing but hollow.

"Thanks." "You can have a seat," I gesture to the bed and she sits. Her eyes briefly move to my open laptop. "Writing?" "Mhhm." "How's it coming up? Are you having new ideas?" "I am." "Cool. I read a few blogs from writers claiming that sometimes, it seems like the screen goes blank and then when you think of giving up, the smallest thing will bring new big ideas, once you start typing, you can't seem to stop, words and new scenes keep flowing."

The graph shifted. Instead of a jagged spike near the end, the curve rose earlier, smoother, more natural. I stared at it for a moment. The shape felt right. A small breath slipped out of me. Now came the harder part. The report. I opened a blank document and looked at the empty page. The cursor blinked. The white space felt too wide, like it was waiting for me to fail.

I grab my journal to write it down, to connect the threads before they fade— But then my mind blanks. The pen hovers over the page. I can’t remember what I wanted to write. Not a single word. Fuck.

Back home, if I was lucky, two days of meals combined would not match what I had in a single sitting here. And that was on a good week. My stomach does not complain. It has learned patience. It knows how to wait. It knows how to quiet itself and accept what it gets. I sit cross legged on the bed with the journal they handed out on the first day. The cover is smooth and thick, the pages creamy and untouched. No real instructions came with it. Just a suggestion to write. Reflect. Process. I flip it open and stare at the blank page. Instead of writing, I start doodling in the margins.

Unlock it, and the empty pages shall be filled for you to read. I stare at the words for a long time. Read them again. And again. “What does that even mean,” I mutter under my breath. Within me. Unlock it. Empty pages. I flip to the next page. Blank. The one after that. Blank. I start flipping faster now. Page after page after page, all clean, untouched, mocking me with their silence. No hidden ink. No symbols. No diagrams. Nothing. Just white paper. My grip tightens on the book until my knuckles ache.

The seat creaked under his weight as he rocked it slowly, gaze fixed on me. His eyes peeling off my skin, I wonder what was going through his mind, praying he kept every discussion professional. He pulled out a plain white sheet of paper, laid it flat on the table between us, took a pen from the chipped ceramic cup on the desk, and tossed it onto the paper. “Write.” He said. Just one word. My heart thumped, shaky fingers circled the pen. I stared at the blank sheet before me, my brain blanked for a second. His lips parted, like he wanted to say something.

THE BLANK SPOT He was at the next full council meeting too. I noticed before I saw him — or rather, I noticed the moment I stopped noticing something, which was how the blank worked. The room filled in, the Resonance moved through the people as they arrived, and then there was a gap. A shape where a reading should have been. I looked up and he was there. This time I was ready for it. I'd spent two weeks thinking about what it wasn't — not suppression, not defense, not practiced resistance — and trying to understand what that left. What it could be, if it wasn't any of those things.

Spread it out on the table. Cole walked into the room. "You bought supplies." "I bought supplies." "Are you going to draw?" "I'm going to try." I sat down. Picked up a pencil. Stared at the blank page. Nothing came. "It's okay," Cole said. "Take your time." I stared at the page for an hour. Nothing. I put the pencil down. "I can't do it." "Yes, you can." "I don't know where to start." "Start with me."

In a feverish haze, I heard the doorbell ring. The delivery guy called out, "Delivery for Mr. Hendrick." I smiled as I took it from the delivery guy and thanked him. I was going to laugh at James for being childish. After all, before falling asleep, I had only mentioned that I had a fever. Yet he had already ordered medicine for me. However, when I opened the delivery bag and saw what was inside, my expression froze. Condoms and lubricant were right there in plain sight, and even the toy in my hand made my head spin. Just as I took out my phone, ready to demand an explanation from my husband, a text message suddenly popped up. "This is Sangland Resortworld. Dear Mr. Hendrick, we are de