A writer's tale:

A story came crashing in. One worth telling. Words that had to be written down on paper. Memories from long ago come like a race, runners tumbling in, falling over each other for a chance to win the prize. Which ones will get in the book? They argue “Pick me!” “I’m the most memorable!” Words. They clash all the time. Like cymbals wanting everyone to hear what they have to say. So loud that I can’t think. I take a breath.


I am a writer. I must pick the RIGHT word. The individual words have no meaning in a tale. They learn to take their place in order, like a crossword puzzle, words stacked, obedient, in their place.


The man and woman meet. They fall in love and get married. They have a wonderful life with three children. Lots of ups and downs...The words continue. They almost have a life of their own. They spill out from the years of learning, reading, conversing, living. The heart of a writer comes from life lived. The words swell up inside like a balloon bursting. Spilling out in order. Amazing. The hand from above reaches down placing each expression where it needs to go. Filling the heart and mind with passion and instinct to finish what is started. A book. The tale of a man and woman. Something that has never been written before. Like giving birth. Painful but triumphant. What tale will my heart come up with next?




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