NdukuOutLoud

Reflections on the Slate, the Erasures, and the Author Within

In my writing, and in my efforts to do it more frequently and get better at it, I have found that very few things scare me more than a blank page with no idea where to start. The fact that there’s a lot going on in my head, much more than I could ever really capture well enough on a piece of paper—or imaginary paper on a computer—and still not know where to start.

The realization that as soon as I start, it could become just about anything. It could make sense —or not. It could be something I am certain of. Or not. It could start off as one thing, get lost somewhere in the middle, find its way back. Or not. Or I could write one to the end, only to realize that I really do not care for it. And start all over again.

Is that what ‘tabula rasa’ generally implies about human beings? That we are blank slates. We come as blank slates and have the power and/or choice to make that into whatever we want.

So much power. So many possibilities.

But can it be really blank? Or even if it is blank—is the slate the same for everybody? Do we get the same amount of space? The same number of chances to make mistakes as we try to figure out what should go on the slate and what shouldn’t? Or do some get more chances than others?

Does a blank “blank slate” mean we all start at the same starting line, or are some slates pre-chipped before we even pick up the chalk?

And on mistakes, what happens to the things we erase? In writing, hitting backspace leaves a clean screen, but in life, erasure leaves smudges, ghost lines and worn-down paper. But human slates don’t work that way.

And is there any way to understand all these questions, without considering or letting ourself know the maker of the slate?

I find myself coming back to this time and time again. That maybe the only way to know us—to know who we are—is to know the source. The maker. Or is it the other way around: to know the source, do we have to know ourselves?

I heard a joke that says our problem is that we try to find the author outside of the book. While the author is in the book. The artist is the art and the art is the artist.

See, what I was saying about blank spaces? Look where we are now.

Is it not better to think—and believe—that the slate might be empty, but something or someone has the final story? The final output, and our job is just to find our way there?

It could be. But if you don’t know how the story ends, or the point of it all, how do you get there? And is it really empty if the outcome is known or already written down somewhere?

Maybe that is what this whole messy exercise is. We aren’t here to find a pristine, pre-written manuscript or keep the board clean. We are just learning how to read our own handwriting—finding the author not by looking up at the sky, but by tracing the very lines we are currently writing.