I sit here, the power of words at my fingertips, yet I don’t know what to
say. I have the ability to create worlds, strategize battles, pen a romance,
touch the hearts of the people – and yet, I don’t know that I want to.
I don’t know that I want to.
How selfish is that?
I have power to make people laugh, or cry, to teach a moral, to give
praise to God, but to do it I have to give up me. To write myself into the
story, to let them experience what goes on in my head - is nerve-wracking to
say the least. But if I don’t, is my story worth reading, will it really be all
that it could be?
No.
I sigh and stare at the outlines, the
maps, and character sketches. I read up on psychology, write a few poems, attempt
to create a government. Organize my
papers, put them away, take them out, read them, add a few notes, add a few
more notes, cross out a line, then another and another. A lovely voice says I
should scribble all over the page, ball it up and throw it away.
I drop my pen and push away from the
desk for a few minutes.I find my iPod and let soft
instrumentals wash over me. The littles run past towing the youngest with them
in a laundry basket-boat. I smile and store the memory away, noting the glint
of excitement in their eyes as they venture to new worlds.
After setting a pot of water to
boil on the stove, I take a moment to reflect on why I am writing. Why is it so
important?
I find vague thoughts and emotions
that jump tauntingly out of reach before I can catch them.
Steam hisses up from the spout and
I pour hot water over a tea bag. I sprinkle in a little sugar…okay, well, maybe a tad more than a little, and stir in a bit of milk. Wrapping icey fingers
around the mug, I press my face close to the heat and blow puffs of warmth into
my face.
He whispers gently to me, “Write
this for me, Kate.”
I curl up with blanket and
fingerless gloves that help my hands brave the cold. Armed with my
favorite pen, a red marker, and tea, I pour over my notes once more and prepare
the story He has asked me to create. I begin on the outlines again. A scene
pops up, surprising me, giving me new insight on a character. The excitement
returns and as I work through the mess of papers I decide that yes, this is
worth it. I want people to cry with me, laugh with me, and beg my characters to
see the consequences of their choices with me. I want them to experience what I
have experienced… and maybe, just maybe, they’ll learn something too. And that
makes it worth every everything I’ll have to endure.
