I listen to an audiobook or read a story and I feel encouraged to write my own. To craft as the wordsmith, build a fantastic world and adventure with characters of my own.
Yet, when the time comes that I can write, I only feel small. How can I write a story as wonderful as the ones I listen to and read? What clever ways could I describe setting while blending it with dialogue and plot? How do I get my story from something plain to something that inspires?
These giant questions surround like black towers with sentries on top like mad dogs keeping guard. They obsess for the moments when I dare to rise. When I lift my fingers and believe I can type. The moment I move, they react like machines, firing their arrows down at me.
“You’ll never be good enough.”
“This task is too great.”
“That sentence you just wrote is pathetic.”
“You? Getting published? With that story? Yeah, right.”
Down and down, the arrows rain. Until I’m pinned to the ground, no hope remains. To type one word, to lift my hand. It’s all too heavy. How can I make anyone understand? How can I write something wonderful and grand?
But, then comes a whisper, a still, small voice. Reminding me that I have a choice. There’s power I can access to be strong enough. To face the arrows and towers and show that I’m tough. A spirit of discipline. A reminder of future hope. There is one who is for me and with me in the fight. Who gives me the strength to be able to write. A scene I had thought was too hard to handle, now has a draft–the flame’s found a candle.
So, when the battle gets tough and the pen feels heavy, I know there is someone holding me steady.
nikki diekemper 