Katrina Deane

Katrina Deane Reflective Essay The Blank Stare I must admit, this paper is coming so late not because I’ve been working on it diligently and perfecting it, but because I just started it today. It wasn’t procrastination though, not entirely. I just had no idea what to write. What have I learned this semester? Why are reflections always so difficult? It seemed to me that my semester was only a bit frustrating, somewhat interesting at times, and mentally stuck in a rut. I mean really, in every area of my life I seem to be hitting a thousand foot tall, brick built by the third little pig wall. And when I thought about writing this reflection… I immediately ​ ​stopped thinking about writing it. Today though I had a bit of a revelation and I have a student in the center to thank for it. I worked with a freshman all semester on writing a book. Every week he brought in two hot chocolates from those people that give them out by Fisher. Every Monday we would sit at the computer and laugh at the terrible grammar mistakes he made while writing in front of me. Every time he changed ideas his mind would spin into the world he created in his head that he just couldn’t pin to a page the way that he felt it deserved. And every instance a blank page was in front of him he became speechless and forgot his entire plot. I would say to him “what do you want to say first?” And he would hesitantly (and quite awkwardly) punch the keys. I never saw anyone want to backspace more but I encouraged him onward. “It doesn’t have to be perfect” I told him, thinking back to Shitty First Drafts, “you just have to start somewhere.” The end of the semester saw him with one page written that he may end up using in his final draft, but probably not. And yet we made so much progress - he started with nothing written at all and no idea how to start. I realized that there is nothing more terrifying than a blank page in front of you when you’re in charge of making it beautiful. It was easy in art class I suddenly saw, I was always the first to put paint down on my piece. Sometimes people would turn and watch me. Yes I would start with a plan, and really it was only my grade, which I knew would be good because the art teacher liked me. But even feeling sure that at least something good would come of it, and that I could always change it as many times as I wanted with more paint, I held my ​ breath. ​Every single time. I closed my eyes, sucked air in, opened them and slapped the paint square in the middle. Usually there was a little more force than intended. It was like there was an invisible force field over it, not strong but enough to hold back weak attempts. I had to push through it quickly and pop it or it would keep that blank paper staring at me until all of my security vanished under its scrutiny. Yet when it was gone the paint would move with my brush where I asked it to go. It felt free and real and satisfying. The fear was momentarily abated. Compared to my student’s blank page, this one was welcoming and forgiving. Not so forgiving as the page of my future though. This paper I realized, the one that waits ominously for one to fill it, isn’t always tangible. And it isn’t always something that can be completed in a sitting or even a few years. Right now I am sitting on a cusp, waiting on the edge of a piece of paper, once blank that I have labored over my entire life. One life sequence leading inexorably to the next, college only a continuation of high school, friends and lovers lined up behind me and walking away. And across this tiny but widening chasm there lives a new page. A blank stare. When I graduate there will be no escaping it. I can’t go back, no one will let me. And in order to prepare myself for it I must start writing now. I have to call grad schools, write cover letters, ask for recommendations. But I’m scared. “What do I want to do first?” I ask myself. I can’t answer, I’m afraid because this is my responsibility. I have to make something beautiful and it doesn’t feel like there can be any second chances. But now I’m beginning to understand that even hesitantly (and awkwardly) taking the first steps, wanting more than anyone to turn around and run - it doesn’t have to perfect, I just need to start somewhere.