WRITING FOR OUR LIVES.
Hidden in my bedroom closet was a manuscript I wrote and should throw away, remove evidence of terrible writing. I should do my part to help make the earth a cleaner planet. I grabbed the trash and walked towards the recycle waste bin, ready to drop the 300 plus pages of my first attempt to write a novel, AS I KNOW HOW.
In time the story will be written.
Then the muse intervened, screamed for me to stop. My muse, a faceless and colorless spirit that came and went as it pleased, said again, "You are not throwing your work away."
I ignored the warning and stared into the bottom of the waste bin. My fingers grew tensed from wanting to destroy my manuscript, thinking I needed to burn it. I considered the consequences of my action, felt the muse applying the pressure.
"No one comes into this world perfect. Throwing your work away will not erase that fact."
"I will never look at this manuscript again," I said. "I have no need for it."
"There's value in knowing you tried and in seeing how far you've come--even if you think you've gone nowhere. The journey is what matters." The muse leaned in closer, whispering a warning in my ear. "Throw that manuscript away, and you throw away the birth of your dream. Do you really want to do that?"
The muse knew it had me, knew how much I hated the thought of living with regrets.
I walked back to the closet and did what I could do. I hid my manuscript, AS I KNOW HOW, far away from the other works in progress on my writing desk: AMELIA, PIECES, and a nameless nonfiction.
"Throw away your rejection letters," the muse said before leaving. "You don't need those anymore."
I grabbed my three-inch binder of rejections and discarded the negative letters, one by one, into the waste bin. A lightness came over me.
I returned to my writing desk and sat in my chair. The computer screen glared, reminding me of the hours I had spent trying to write AMELIA. A blank Word document appeared. I pressed my fingertips to the keyboard and typed the letters that formed the easiest part of a novel: CHAPTER ONE.
Sprawled across my desk were Henry David Thoreau's words encouraging me:
We must walk consciously only part way toward our goal, and then leap in the dark to our success.
My fingers began to shift, moving up and down on the keyboard:
Elizabeth lay limp inside her Victorian home. Blood trickled from her thin, left wrist and made a rivulet on the hardwood floors. She curled into herself, dying next to her bed and a shattered, picture frame. Her fingers twitched. Her vision blurred. She murmured a man's name. Outside a June, summer day waited for her to rise.
I reread the sentences, knowing they would be tweaked and turned ten times over, and possibly deleted in the course of a minute at my desk.
I've been here before, with good days and bad days. Today was mixed. As long as I showed up at my writing desk, the words came. My imagination followed, asking me to see and listen without judgment. My muse was nearby. My fingertips were warm, feeling the story develop, word by word.
In time the story will be written.
I ignored the warning and stared into the bottom of the waste bin. My fingers grew tensed from wanting to destroy my manuscript, thinking I needed to burn it. I considered the consequences of my action, felt the muse applying the pressure.
"No one comes into this world perfect. Throwing your work away will not erase that fact."
"I will never look at this manuscript again," I said. "I have no need for it."
"There's value in knowing you tried and in seeing how far you've come--even if you think you've gone nowhere. The journey is what matters." The muse leaned in closer, whispering a warning in my ear. "Throw that manuscript away, and you throw away the birth of your dream. Do you really want to do that?"
The muse knew it had me, knew how much I hated the thought of living with regrets.
I walked back to the closet and did what I could do. I hid my manuscript, AS I KNOW HOW, far away from the other works in progress on my writing desk: AMELIA, PIECES, and a nameless nonfiction.
"Throw away your rejection letters," the muse said before leaving. "You don't need those anymore."
I grabbed my three-inch binder of rejections and discarded the negative letters, one by one, into the waste bin. A lightness came over me.
I returned to my writing desk and sat in my chair. The computer screen glared, reminding me of the hours I had spent trying to write AMELIA. A blank Word document appeared. I pressed my fingertips to the keyboard and typed the letters that formed the easiest part of a novel: CHAPTER ONE.
Sprawled across my desk were Henry David Thoreau's words encouraging me:
We must walk consciously only part way toward our goal, and then leap in the dark to our success.
My fingers began to shift, moving up and down on the keyboard:
Elizabeth lay limp inside her Victorian home. Blood trickled from her thin, left wrist and made a rivulet on the hardwood floors. She curled into herself, dying next to her bed and a shattered, picture frame. Her fingers twitched. Her vision blurred. She murmured a man's name. Outside a June, summer day waited for her to rise.
I reread the sentences, knowing they would be tweaked and turned ten times over, and possibly deleted in the course of a minute at my desk.
I've been here before, with good days and bad days. Today was mixed. As long as I showed up at my writing desk, the words came. My imagination followed, asking me to see and listen without judgment. My muse was nearby. My fingertips were warm, feeling the story develop, word by word.
In time the story will be written.
