The White page: Narrative

 

Zainab was staring straight at her desk since the last thirty-five minutes. Laying down on her water-like mattress with a glittery cushion-the ones that are in trend these days- pressed behind her cramping back, she was unable to opt between the comfort of bed and the joy of writing. At this moment, both promised horizons. A few hours of rest could regain all the strength that she has lost during; cleaning, washing, doing dishes and reading, while a good piece of writing can confer all the psychological healing required.

The desk, although, was in a disarray. Was her mind any different? It was a small computer trolley with a 4-column shelf attached to it. In the middle of the table, was placed a purple notebook, filled with all her writings, the last pages of which contained ideas about her future plots. Here, the world was reflected upon, written, erased, highlighted, underlined, italicized, rethought, despised, adored and, most frequently, torn. Under the corner, stood a paper-made lamp colored in pink. She didn’t love pink at all. But this had been gifted by her late granny on her twelfth birthday and since then, Zainab had kept it here. With her writing corner grounded in disorder, she jumped out of bed and began clearing the mess. One by one, she assembled everything; pens, highlighters, bookmarks, sticky notes, chits, and a few more miniatures, until she had organized it enough.

Enough?

Enough to feel a compelling urge to write.

She pulled the chair gently, but it screeched anyway. The next tough challenge-after finally mustering the strength to write- for any writer, is the ‘what’ question. But Zainab had been deeply contemplating on a recent workshop that she had attended and so, translating the experience into words seemed the best for now. She opened up her notebook and reached out for a fresh page. A white page. The moment she saw it, it was as though a crushing burden had fallen upon her aching shoulders. The whiteness of the paper  was haunting her. Or perhaps she had a merit, too high. “Sadist plainness”. she remarked irritatingly, like a person who is forewarned of a defeat and was struggling to keep her confidence intact. Facing, although reluctantly, the blinding gloom an empty page could inflict, she uncapped her blue pointer and started. ‘A few days ago,’ she wrote. But ‘Somedays back’ sounded better. She erased, rectified, and repeated this a couple of times until she had figured out the first paragraph and erased it too. “Nothing is working, nothing”. she cried to herself.

Quickly, she pricked the balloon of distractions and resumed.

Zainab had always wondered how did she come this far, with all the undesired depresses that are concomitant to the art of writing. Somedays, she is exhausted of the vagueness of an untold story. Other days, the reality of fiction astonishes her wildest imagination. “Writing is an active, conscious choice followed by inevitable implications”. she had admitted in one of her recent blogs. “Because it is saddening and joyful in tandem. You ace the game and check mate your own self”. She had added.

The terror of the white page was gradually diminishing and Zainab was no longer petrified. She had categorized her discourse into 3 paragraphs. She was aware that organization is crucial to writing and so had reviewed her plot once more. Most of it seemed perfect. Yet Zainab, with her beautiful round eyes, began reading it again. “Wait, what have I done, the second paragraph doesn’t fit well” she realized. Picking up her reduced-to-atom-size eraser, she planned on fixing it. After tweaking a few words, eliminating some sentences, ameliorating the second paragraph, and rearranging her conclusion, she felt a little satisfaction. How did it look now? She rescanned. And finally, with all the courage amassed, she ripped it right away. Without thinking twice. Ruthlessly.

“Maybe some other day” she sighed.