I’ve been thinking a bit about the work I’m doing in writing. I want to go further into the process of understanding where things come from, so I can shed them, and find a core that I can say is authentically mine. I’m prepared, if I find this, to accept it means I may have nothing at all. What’s there? Perhaps nothing.
In an earlier blog, stealing from Brecht and Nina Steiger, I talked about core poetics. How a writer has to uncover these, unpick them, and be aware that what’s going on that page comes from somewhere. So I’m looking at that and thinking – what would be different if that layer or level was found to be not of my own? It is inherited perhaps, handed down, or it’s a transference or a recontextualization, could it be that the job of a writer is to really leave a page empty?
Could my aim as a writer be to find that empty page? To get to a point where there is nothing left to say? No more words, nothing left to convey, and to be able to leave off this writing?
Perhaps that empty page is worth writing for?