Galvin crop

Calvin & Hobbes stood atop a hillside of freshly fallen snow, trusty sled at the ready, on Dec. 31, 1995 — and contemplated the possibilities.

“A new year,” the 6-year-old boy said. “A fresh clean start.”

“It’s like having a big white sheet of paper to draw on,” replied his best friend, who others saw only as a stuffed tiger.

And with that, they mounted the sled and set off into the world, putting a joyous climax to Bill Watterson’s landmark strip.

Newspapers, to me, always were those big white sheets of paper. The worksheet started with them blank — then slowly found their purpose and import as they became filled with stories and photos, box scores and weather maps … until being sent off into the world.

The next day, another hill to climb, more blank spaces to fill.

Writing a column has been like that — a small patch of nothingness tucked into a corner or down the side of a newspaper page. Once or twice a week, peering into the void, until struck by inspiration or necessity, the nothingness would be replaced, for the time being.

In the opening chapter of Percival Everett’s 2022 novel “Dr. No,” mathematician Wala Kitu (an adopted name combining the Tagalog and Swahili words for “nothing”), is quizzed by military generals about the power of employing the absence of anything.

“Perhaps someone could find and harness nothing,” he mused. “I felt a little sick to my stomach, fearful, and somewhat giddy with excitement.”

If you have ventured into writing — not necessarily for a living, but because you’ve felt unable to resist — you empathize with Kitu’s uncertainty.

Putting a blank page before you with a keyboard or pen at the ready, can make you giddy, fearful and sick to your stomach all at once.

Perhaps you plow ahead. Perhaps you have a collection of journals, legal pads and notebooks stored away, all filled with paper upon which nothing is written.

It’s amazing that something that has yet to come into existence can put so much weight on your shoulders.

When I’ve felt that burden is also when I’ve produced what I believe to be my worst results. “Trying to write,” for me, is the same as what actors allude to when they “try to act” — if the effort is obvious, you’re doing it wrong.

The first newspaper column of my professional career appeared, out of some momentary inspiration, some 45 years ago. Editors liked it and asked me to do more. This led to what I’ve called Galvin’s Rule of Photography, to wit: “Never take a picture for the newspaper. If you do, they might assign you to take others.”

No one’s ever had to twist my arm to write. Over the past 25 years at the Mail Tribune and Rogue Valley Times, I’ve produced columns under seven different titles. There have always been blank spaces that needed attention.

“None of us knew just what nothing was,” Wala Kitu notes, “but its possibilities were boundless.”

If that first newspaper column in 1979 was spurred by inspiration, this one is out of necessity. It is my last.

I know some of you are thinking, “He’s said that before.” And you’re right. But this time is different. There are no ominous personal or professional reasons.

It’s just time. I have more journals and legal pads and notebooks sitting at home, filled with nothing, than I’m willing to admit. The weight of that emptiness compels action.

Hobbes knew what he was talking about — the future is like having big white sheets of paper to draw on. It’s time to go exploring.