My Half Page
For centuries, people have worked on their half page. They say it is the secret of many writers. Anyone who writes half a page a day can write countless novels. How many exactly, I do not know. Probably more than most people will ever read.
Some half pages were written late at night, kissed by muses or troubled by worry. Others in the morning, at a desk or even in bed, in small apartments, often at the margins of society or looking in from the outside. Still others full of hope, or entirely without it, before a walk along the shore or after it. Those without a shore may have to reach for a drink before attempting their half page. Some people are afraid of the blank page, though it is really only half a blank page. Come to think of it, I could never bear a whole blank page. Or worse, many blank pages.
That is why I am writing this half page.
So far, it is only a few sentences, and since I write so irregularly and have failed to write so many half pages, I should probably write more. Many half pages were probably never written. How many were torn up or crumpled? For some, paper may have been too precious to write on. For others, their experiences were too precious to put into words. Sometimes things lose their shine on the page.
When I sit in front of a blank page, I often think I have not lived enough. I have been neither poor nor ill, nor have I travelled very much. I have experienced some things and forgotten many of them. Yet so much remains unsaid. Some things I cannot put into words because I am afraid my words might take something away from them. I do not know whether I would be happier had I always written my half page. Perhaps people are just as happy without it. Maybe the happiest people are those who never write.
My half page often has gaps, like so much in my memory. Paragraphs probably help in reaching a half page. A quarter page would not be bad either. But even those who reach their half page have, in a sense, achieved nothing. No one is waiting at the finish line, not even themselves. Whether anyone will read it, or whether what is said has any value at all, is another question.
When I look back, I sometimes think I should have lived more. Perhaps it would be easier to write my half page today. Then again, I have always been writing, and because of that I have missed many things as well.
What remains of my half page? What remains of me? In writing, one leaves a piece of oneself behind. One lets a piece of oneself go. A half page is probably enough for that…
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Johannes Zimmermann