Staring At The Blank Page Before You Novels & Stories

Agnes I stared down at the sketchbook in my lap, tapping the end of my pencil against the blank page until even the sounds of the soft thuds were starting to irritate me. No matter how long I sat there, no matter how hard I tried to force inspiration to come, nothing was coming to me. No designs, no patterns, not even a stray doodle to fill the blank page staring up at me.

Lena had been staring at the blank canvas for so long, she could practically hear it mocking her. The rest of the class was alive with the scratch of brushes and the soft hum of conversation. Sunlight filtered through the tall studio windows, dancing across half-finished landscapes and portraits, but her easel held nothing, just a cold, untouched white rectangle. She dipped her brush in the water jar out of habit, watching the ripples spread, then set it down again. Her mind was empty.

I am the Luna in title only, a woman who sorts herbs and saves the occasional broken leg and tries not to take up too much space in a house that doesn't quite know what to do with her yet. Which means whatever I write will be incomplete by necessity, not just by choice. The distinction feels important. I'm not sure it actually is. I get up and go to the desk and take out the parchment and I sit there for a long moment before I write anything, looking at the blank page the way you look at a door you're about to walk through knowing the room on the other side has changed since the last time you were in it. Then I write.

She hadn't touched them. She sat at the small, wobbly, wooden table. She opened the book. The blank, white page stared back at her, a pure, terrifying new beginning. Her hand was shaking. She could still feel the phantom vibration of the plane, the bus, the escape. She touched the pencil to the page. She didn't know what to draw. Her mind was empty, a gray fog, just like the sky outside. So she drew the fog. She drew the rain, hard, slashing lines.

The night after my first scene, I sat in my apartment with my laptop open and my notebook spread across the kitchen table. The city outside my window hummed its usual mechanical lullaby, but inside my mind, there was a roar, a conflict of loyalties and a confusion of identity. The blank document stared back at me, the cursor blinking like an impatient heartbeat, demanding I start, demanding I explain, demanding a story. *How do I write this?* I asked myself. *Should I?*

I think growing up under the care of my elder brother made it ground so hard in me. I was sitting on my bed with my notebook open, legs crossed, pen hovering uselessly over the page. My room was quiet in that way that made your thoughts louder and maybe it was good Sonia was “out” as always. Okay, Isla…. We need rules. I finally pressed the pen down and began scribbling after almost ten minutes of staring at a blank page. 1. Don’t seek any one of them out.

I hesitated for a second before handing it over. She flipped through it quietly, then paused. I didn’t even need to look at her to know what she saw. She was quiet for a moment. I didn’t say anything—I just kept my eyes on the page, avoiding her gaze. “You’ve been doing that thing again,” she said. “What thing?” I asked, even though I knew. “This,” she pointed at the page. “You write a bit for the ones you remember, then you leave space for the ones you don’t. You only do this when something’s on your mind.”

I say and weave at him before leaving the car. I watch the car leave and disappear before entering my apartment. Gosh I'm so tired.

A blank page titled “Untitled Essay.” “Maybe,” I said. “Write it.” I blinked. “What?” “Write whatever you want to say. The messy version. The angry version. The soft version. Whatever comes out. Don’t post it. Just… get it out of your head.” I pressed my lips together. Felt my throat tighten. “You always know what I need before I do,” I said quietly. “Nah.” His voice dropped even lower. “I just pay attention.” I closed my eyes for a second.

I didn’t answer, but something in the way he said it made me want to prove him right. After he left me alone, I closed the door. The quiet was strange, almost overwhelming. For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the blank page in front of me. My hands hovered over the pencils—I wasn't sure where to start. “What if I’ve forgotten how to do this?” I whispered to myself.