Few things scare me more than a blank piece of paper.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been riddled with perfectionist tendencies. Little tic(k)s that latch on and refuse to let go. Writing helps because, by definition, it can never be perfect. That’s not to say I haven’t tried. At university, I justified every single paragraph I wrote into pixel-perfect rectangles. My headings had to involve witty alliterations. And my examples always followed the rule of three. Over time, I’ve tweezed a few of these fixations. Have a look; this paragraph is not an exact rectangle.
(Yes, it might seem close, but notice how lines 2, 3, and 4 fall a few characters short of lines 1 and 5)
All this, by the way, was at the cost of substance. I would (and often still) deliberately compromise on substance if it satisfied my personal, idiosyncratic notions of perfection. I’d spend days rephrasing characters so they’d fit the puzzle in my head *just right*. In other words: obsessive-compulsion.
You might notice that these tendencies are all about fashion over function. Back then, I was of the opinion that what was said didn’t matter nearly as much as how it was said. I no longer fully agree. Yes of course, style, format, and devices matter (I’m literally obsessed). But I’ve learned the hard way that it’s all for naught if the writing doesn’t covert*. And nothing converts quite like fresh, juicy substance.
(See how ‘substance’ hangs out by itself at the end of that paragraph? That’s progress, folks)
*Convert could mean anything from convincing you to read the next sentence to making a purchase.
Anyway. Today, these compulsions have expanded (for the worse) from pretty pages to substance. And when I say substance, I guess I mean original, essential, efficient, and more than anything: worthy of your attention. If I don’t have anything of substance to say, what gives me the audacity to say anything at all? If what I have to say doesn’t resonate, how could I possibly ask for your time?
It doesn’t really matter where all this stems from, but the fact is: it’s a vain and cowardly attitude to impose upon myself. I want to write a feature length screenplay. But before all that, I want to write imperfectly.
And that starts with a blank piece of paper.
