I was still in my pajama pants with the zebras on them. I cradled my second cup of coffee as if it were "the antidote."
I begged Grace to let me write.
Which is a ridiculous prayer, as perhaps most prayers are.
But it was all I had. It was the most honest thing I could say.
Who cares if I write, save me? Please. God. Save me.
I will surely be swallowed up, digested and account for little more than a rice cake.
The current of story will swell and break on the shore regardless of whether or not I add mine.
Hers is a timeless momentum which cannot stop, and she has been freed of ambition.
Her task is to ebb and flow and inspire and she ~ the wave ~ is no longer burdened with the crackle and burn of choice. She has cooled that fire with her consistency. She has rolled away all hard edges and she is hurt by nothing. All around her is white noise, and the sun's radial stars off the water. I find her in the drops from my finger tips when I swim.
I am not so free. I am not the ocean. There is a fire in me still.
My choice has fizzled out with only a hint of smoke where I tried to ignite it.
Since I set out to "Write A Book" in September, I have written less than ever.
I thought if I read The War of Art I would become a more powerful warrior.
Instead my awareness of the enemy named "Resistance" has caused me only to hesitate.
I did not charge in like Braveheart with blue paint smeared across my cheeks and blood in my hair.
I was the one who donned someone else's clothes and tried to pretend I was just a house wife.
I hate to admit this.
I'd rather just do more Christmas shopping on Amazon.
But I don't have any more money.
Also, I prayed today. This makes it hard to hide.
I don't know what Grace I pray to. I only know I cannot lie to her.
I know that sometimes, when I kneel down everything else falls away and I am left with one voice.
As daunting as that can be, in the face of the whole wave, it can also be the most comforting truth.
At least I can be her, this one voice, and perhaps I have not failed entirely.
Because I have been writing for 20 years. I haven't given up. In my stories, I don't lie.
In college I learned that after it's all over, the dreamers bow down to the workers.
It is best to be both.
As I look back on all my writing, I wonder, if I do a little more, could it be a book?
Is the book already there? Is it like a painting that could be finished if I'd just ask a few more questions and stare at it a little longer? Will I look back and wish I'd worked a little harder and pushed to the end?
This answer is clear.
I realize I am still a rice cake.
At least I am free of the burden of "greatness."
But I would like to join the ranks of Anne Frank. I would like to be someone who told her story without pretense and who helped a few people make sense of a chaotic world. I would really like to do that. I would like to give back what has been given to me by so many authors who will never know I read their story.
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| Anne Frank's original diary |
