I've come to the pages this morning with nothing to write. I'm sluggish but have three pages to fill. I know I'll fill them, but part of me wonders how.

As always, it begins with the decision to just fill them. That's not a goal, though if it helps to think of it that way, go ahead. For me it's a plan or map, a boundary for the game I'm playing. I have exactly three pages to fill and there's no requirement for what goes in them so long as I put ink down.

That's the second part: putting ink down. For the thousandth time, I'm vaguely considering the volume of ink these three pages will absorb. That thinking keeps me from worrying much about what I'll write or what I shouldn't write. Thinking what not to say is a trap to avoid.

I am drafting this on pages with numbered lines. I'm on line twenty of page one with about two and a half pages remaining. I balance thoughts of how far I have left to go with appreciation for how far I have come. I hold that balance by keeping the pen moving and noticing how I'm moved forward by it. By the time I consider how far I've come, I'm even farther along.

Yeah, but you still have nothing to say, says a small voice.

That voice used to boom and echo and I know how dominant it is for others, but it has become a pitiful squeaking for me. I smile at the sound of it because I know that I started with nothing to write and have filled half my three pages with ideas to help other writers.

It reminds me of this Aaron Sorkin story:

This guy's walking down a street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can't get out. A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, "Hey you! Can you help me out?" The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole, and moves on. Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, "Father, I'm down in this hole; can you help me out?" The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by. "Hey, Joe, it's me. Can you help me out?" And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, "Are you stupid? Now we're both down here." The friend says, "Yeah, but I've been down here before and I know the way out."

I've been stuck down this hole more often than most people and I know the way out. I was down here two pages ago, yet we aren't stuck anymore.

How did that happen? This quote from Finding Forrester is a good answer:

"The first key to writing is to write, not to think."

The thinking writers do before they begin moving the pen is self-centered anxiety about what others will think. Not thinking is one way through that. I achieve that by writing only for my own amusement, expecting that no one else will read what I've written. That helps me be less anxious about what you (whoever you are) might think of me.

In practice this boils down to keeping the pen moving. It's tough to think while the pen is moving. It's tough to give into anxiety when the pen is moving. The way out of the hole reveals itself through the pen's movement.

The moving pen generates ideas. I've come to the pages this morning with nothing to write becomes three pages (revised to 700 words) through the simple act of deciding to write three pages just for me and keeping the pen moving. Ideas come out in blue ink as if by magic which is a pretty good name for this writing game.

I'm out of the hole now. Maybe you are too. I'll probably see you down there again. Or maybe not. You know a way out now and maybe your pen is already moving.