Facing Down the Blank Page

Some books write themselves. They appear fully formed in the author’s head, gift-wrapped offerings from literary gods, and writing these books is nothing short of Elysian. It’s a high so all-encompassing that it supersedes the desire for base necessities, like food, water, and bathroom breaks.

Sometimes, writing is the easiest thing in the world: joyous, magical, divine. But other times, it sucks.

Writing my new middle grade novel, Words Apart, sucked. I knew from its inception what I wanted it to do, but I had no clue what I wanted it to be. I knew I wanted to write about sisters, and I knew I wanted to incorporate crossword puzzles as poems. But that’s it. That’s all I had. I had no characters, no plot points, no setting, no theme. I had no beginning, no middle, no end, and I certainly didn’t have the connective tissue between. I had no words.

It seemed that for Words Apart, my words had parted. I was as empty as the blank page before me and as clueless as the crossword puzzle poems I also couldn’t write.

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