An author who had won three Pulitzers, along with a Nobel Prize, died suddenly and was sent to Hell. Instead of being struck with whips or burned with brimstone, he was shown to a small white room with a desk and chair. There were notebooks of every description, all beautifully bound with the best paper, numerous fountain pens of all sizes, and inks of all colours. Here he was chained and told to write until all the books were filled. When he was finished, the notebooks were taken away and new blank ones were brought in.
If the above description does not sound like torture to you, you have never tried to write anything.
I have a sermon, an in-depth book review, a short story, and an upcoming essay for a poetry class this summer — all yet to be begun. Not to mention a novel that’s nagging for attention. The only way any of it will get done is if I sit at this desk at some point every single day and write. And it feels exactly like torture.
I want my writing to speak of the things of Heaven while I’m still here on Earth; so why does it feel so much like Hell?
One thought on “Hell Is A Blank Page”
Makes me smile