The Blank Screen: Part 1
In his blog entry about the blank page, Clark apologizes for not talking about the white space of the screen. At first hand the blank page and the blank screen look remarkably alike. Both are white, empty spaces. Both have boundaries. Both are spaces for writing.
The two are different in obvious ways, however. You can the throw the page into a trash can. You can throw a digital page into a metaphorical trashcan, but the trashcan on a computer is just that: a metaphor, an icon, a sign of something familiar in the world. There's a tactile difference. I've known writers who say they prefer the contact with paper, but there are times when I'm writing on a screen that I hear the rhythm of my writing in the stroke of keys. The keyboard seems to talk, and I find myself talking back as I read aloud softly as I type along. What seems a difference in the two writing spaces is the ability to see alterations, revisions, cross outs, the intellectual and creative messiness of writing, easy to see on a piece of paper but often missing on the screen. Yet most high end word processors have tracking features, and web-based Wikis are even more promising in tracking changes. All in all, writing on the two spaces physically isn't that much different.
But do our brains meld with paper and the screen in different ways? A lot has been written about different ways of writing and reading hypertexts, especially with reading hypertexts, which require a different kind of writing than paper based writing, though even that point is argued, some saying Joyce was one of the first hypertext writers.
To follow: Part II
Richard, thanks for moving this discussion forward into hyperspace. Two differences I have experienced as a writer within (upon?) both mediums:
1) The electronic page is eminently and immediately available for editing. I have already edited these two sentences at least five times while composing them. This makes writing in the electronic medium highly recursive, changeable.
2) The electronic "blank" page is also not quite blank, in fact it is active. The cursor blinks, blankly, and urges me to begin or to continue. The pulp version remains mute.
That's an interesting comment about the cursor blinking. I don't consciously notice it anymore, but, yes, it's still there, sending a message that the screen is wating for more text. But how do writers receive the message? The cursor could be a sign of encouragement. Just write a few more words, please. Or the cursor could be mocking anyone whose mind is blank and has nothing to say. The blank page without a cursor seems more merciful.
Liked your reference to the trashcan as an icon, which is why we have the speakers turned up enough to hear the 'crumple' of the paper as the trash is emptied.