An Empty Page

The story begins one day at the Blend, a notebook in hand.
The story begins making games in the playground.
The story begins late at night writing about games.
The story b

Orwell wrote of the power that the blank page holds. One of the most feared possessions in 1984 is a notebook, the pages all blank. Write in me it says, I could be anything. How does a state control thought when there is a space to fill with thoughts, personal expression and

This story begins one hot Sunday night in Brixton. It is the fourth time that I have tried to start a blog, the third time I have tried to write a first post. In front of me sits an empty page, the cursor bar blinking expectantly.
‘What do you want to write?’ It asks, inviting tone at odds with the tapping foot. ‘Let’s take a journey across the page!’

I could be anything. Absolutely anything.’
The empty page is the void that stares back.

We were en route to vote and Katie was telling of the horror she felt whenever faced with a blank page as a child. (<- Blank or empty?).


Lying in bed, the echoes of traffic and drunken conversation drifts through the open window. The constant noise is calming and I imagine this is what sleeping in the rainforest is like. I have been living in London for a year now, surrounded by the bright and constant bustle of Brixton. What were once unfamiliar names on the tongue have become places with memories and stories.

It is to this backdrop that Sam and I have been starting our studio, Three Knots. The studio started slowly, a year-long flirtation whilst we were both studying. It was cold when we actually had the conversation to decide the fate of this new project. Armed with a single piece of paper we ventured outside to a lone bench outside the games department. No one else was in sight. I remember that within minutes it was difficult to write from the cold but the excitement was tangible, the studio taking physicality through our breath hanging in the air and scrawled notes by frozen hands. The cold felt like a challenge to be embraced, a reflection of the seriousness of our endeavour.

The start of a journey is always a powerful moment, if not as memorable a one. In many ways it doesn’t matter at all, where can one define a start after all? Often the most important changes don’t come through a grand revelation on the road to Demascus, just a niggling idea that there was something here that could be worth taking a chance on.

This blog is a

Damn I need to edit this. What are the main points?
– I’m starting a blog.
– I don’t know what form it will take yet.
– It talks about games and other art.

I’ve just made the hour and a half journey from Rickmansworth, two changes and a lot of standing with a beaten copy of Just Kids glued to my hand. I devour the pages, losing myself in a New York city quite different to the one I visited with my family years ago.

Normally the journey from Rickmansworth leaves me weary but

The heat is a soft blanket in the night. Looking out at the lights in the distance I am not ready for sleep yet. I open my laptop and the empty page stares back.

This blog is a story. I don’t know how it will end.


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