Friday, February 22, 2013


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.

Image of bic pens in a metal pencil holder upon a glass desk.

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?


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.