The Blank Page

#62 - "Where to, this time?"

Welcome! I’m glad you are here. 

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The Blank Page  

I find that when I’m on a long drive, or I’m driving up into the hills, like last Saturday, I get ideas for putting stories together. I have extended time alone to think and put things in perspective.  

But sometimes, nothing really comes together. 

Likewise, when I set down to write, staring up at me is the blank page, and I think, “Where to, this time?” 

Often, I just have to find a place to start, to put down an idea and then say “Okay, what’s next?” Hopefully, it builds on itself, and I can find a thread running through it that I can shape. 

Something happens when words get on the page. They can take on a life of their own.

The idea can be slow to manifest itself. Some ideas, or stories, can quickly become involved, needing more space to unpack, and others can be written and done in fewer words. 

Sometimes the page remains blank longer than I’d like. I hem and haw on an idea or about the direction to take and how to begin. I’ll put it on the back burner and be patient.  

A reward for the effort, as it were, is when in the middle of the night and restless or half-awake, and with the help of the subconscious, connections are made, and the path ahead is clear. I love it when that happens. 

I generally like the less is more approach. In my own stories and those I read. It takes time to read, and stories and newsletter content add up.  

I’m not a fast reader. If I try to blow through a newsletter or a chapter in a book, I start thinking I’m missing something or I’m not doing the read justice.  

Perhaps I just have too much to read in the time I have available. 

I like to end the day all caught up. Would that I could say the same for my chores. If I’m away from my computer and email for a day, I have a hard time catching up.  

One must know one's priorities, and limits.  

I am getting better at not going down the comparison rabbit-hole. I read my favorites, and both wonder and smile at how good, imho, these writers are. The thing they have in common is that they have each found their own voice. Along with their content, this is my motivation.  

The blank page awaits. 

“Where to, this time?” 

Three things from last Saturday come to mind in the hour it took to reach Sacramento. 

*** 

I was on the interstate early.  

Just after sunrise the low sun cast shadows through a stand of Eucalyptus trees lining the freeway onto the roadway. It presented a strobe effect to my eyes - sun - shadow - sun – shadow - etc. 

Then, there it was, in the shadows, in a middle lane. But what was it? 

I thought at first it was a goose, a Canada goose. No. Too big. Then I thought, a turkey. No. Also, too big. It stepped into the sun, heading into my lane next to the divider. 

It was a pheasant, colorful and regal, strutting like it hadn’t a care in the world.  

I admired its nonchalance. 

Mine wasn’t the only vehicle on the interstate, in fact, it was busy for an early Saturday morning. How did it already get across three lanes of traffic without getting hit?  

In the time it took for me to see it and react - THUMP THUMP bumper tires. It was done.  

I didn’t look back. I didn’t need the image in my head.  

* 

The gun-metal grey Charger blew by me, and I wasn’t going slow. It pulled into my lane cutting close as it squeezed in between me and the car in the fast lane, passed it, then swerved back into the fast lane and continued increasing its speed. 

Very soon thereafter, a black Camaro blew by me on my right. I saw this one coming up through my rear-view mirror. He (I’m guessing he, in both cars) was bent on catching the Charger. 

Two beautiful muscle cars, fueled by testosterone (I’m guessing), weaving in and out of lanes on an early Saturday morning. 

I saw them no more as they faded in the distance. The freeway narrowed to four lanes, then three, and the traffic became congested. 

Might they cause an accident? If caught by the CHP, the California Highway Patrol, would it make me laugh? I think it would. And throw the book at them. 

* 

There is an elevated, three-mile bridge, the Yolo Causeway, across the Yolo Bypass just before you get to Sacramento when headed east. The Bypass floodplain allows seasonal high water from the Sacramento River to flood 25,000 acres (about the area of Manhattan), thereby saving Sacramento from the seasonal threat of flooding. It also saves a long trip around the high waters for both cars and industry. 

We had a huge rain season this past winter. The Bypass was a large lake for many months before the waters again joined the Sacramento River well to the south near the town of Rio Vista. 

There is a delicate balance between the landowners with their agricultural concerns and the concerns for the city. The government decides what and when. 

It’s now deep into summer, and those once flooded acres are now lush with rice, a deep fresh green under the morning sun. 

Along with the agricultural concerns, a large wildlife habitat with hunting and fishing is within the Bypass.  

Under the Causeway during the summer, migratory Mexican free-tailed bats roost and feed on insect populations that flourish in the wetlands. The bats are on the move at dusk and dawn. 

The freeway skirts around north of the metro area into the foothills with the mountains, still snowcapped, rising in the distance.  

I’m over a third of the way to my destination with forty more miles of freeway to go before I exit to drive on two lane highways through the rich history that became California. 

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