I am an autodidact writer, and enough an artist to draw upon my imagination of a child within, that is, I still keep my dream alive, malgré-tout. I lose contact with my muse for, sometimes_work, daily train-train, and necessary household duties obliged, then it’s timeout for hobbies, and the like. But, _”chase the natural, it comes back in gallops,”like the French adage said, isn’t it? Then, here I am on the road, on stage, to write; it’s a one-stand alone, in a one- man-show, facing a blanc page.
Courtezy Lynette Noni
So I never consider a blanc page as a void, but a space to my passerby thoughts, so I frame it the moment it shows up, whether I was doodling on a scrap of paper, or a Sketchbook. A blanc page is your best confident friend, like a book is your companion. A blanc page never complains about how you trait it, and always gives you back what you put on it, and then you’re left by your own critics with your thoughts. “Seize the thing, and the words will flow, ” Cicero said, and draw a ligne to, fix the moment when you see a glimpse of a picture , of an idea in front of you, like Cézane, That’s all!
The rest is superfluous, besides , of what is the next idea in contrast, what are negative spaces next to positive space, light and shadows, chiaroscuro, and prose and poetry. All what left aside is pure artistic literature.
So, writing is never depressing, facing a blanc lets me draw imaginary lines in a frame, a widow to a universe beyond reality, to contemplate, like in a daydream, a perspective, to a fleeting wisp that resizes itself an instant, before being carried away by the flow of things that cross my mind, in a wisp of a frown: what are you thinking then, and what are you thinking now?