Blank Page Anxiety

I have a notebook. I spent a long time searching for it, the right paper, the binding, the ideal shade of off-white. The plan was simple: a place for ideas, projects, and inspiration. The reality has been mostly empty pages.

This notebook has traveled extensively. Brooklyn to Manhattan, a commute I’ve lost count of. Across the States from Chicago to Miami and back to New York. Columbia, Dubai, a damp bench in Ireland. It nearly made it to Canada. Next month it will see Rome. Only a few pages bear any ink, perhaps five.

It’s a strange kind of hesitation. A pressure to write perfectly. God forbid I need to redraw a rough wireframe. Pen only, no pencil so no erasers. I’m usually comfortable with cross-outs and corrections, but this notebook feels gives me stage fright.

The blank page that intimidates me with a special fear of approaching my ideas and finding them disappointing. I’m sure there is a German word for that (there probably is). Perhaps it’s the tension between the nature of digital work and the desire for something tangible.

Maybe it’s the fear of judgment, or the desire to leave a polished impression. In my field, given enough time, every line of code is refactored, deleted, lost. This notebook feels like a chance to leave a lasting mark. In a world of digital creation, one fixates on a physical object.

The pressure is there. The pressure to create something permanent and the pressure to justify the miles this notebook has traveled, the hours spent searching for it, the weight it adds to my bag.

It’s not entirely useless, its the opposite. I use it as the reason for drafting notes and ideas on my laptop. As near empty notebooks go, it has got me to write so much. I’ll make edits, explore it further, and put it aside to write by hand later. Or never. Whichever comes first.

That in itself has made all the difference, and perhaps that is the point.