"Since, then, you have been raised with Christ, set your hearts on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things." -Colossians 1:1-2
"Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience." -Colossians 1:12
There are a few things that have happened, which led me to an interesting, post-worthy thought.
Here's the first:
One of my sisters asked me the other day, if I had to choose, which of my five senses would I live without?
If this were actually going to happen, doubtlessly, I would give it more than thirty seconds of thought, but for now, I responded with sight.
My sister looked surprised. "But then you couldn't read!" She exclaimed.
"I could learn Braille." I countered, even though learning a new language (let alone a brand new way of reading English), has never, ever been one of my strongest points.
Regardless, there are ways to read and write, without seeing. And words, they are what give the blind their sight.
And I give you sight to your words. If you can heads or tails that.
I couldn't imagine forgetting what it's like to smell the leaves and cinnamon in the Autumn,
or hearing the sound of voices that I love. I can't fathom a world where I couldn't sing, or tell stories, or feel rain on my skin. These things, more so than sight, are what inspire worlds in my third eye, my imagination, and these things are indispensable to me as a writer.
Here's the second:
One day, I was walking down the hallway of our home, and then suddenly something small and gray and fuzzyish was suddenly darting past us and into the hall bathroom. (We live in the country, remember?)
This was an occasion. It had never happened before, and I suddenly found myself, unprepared, standing inside of a locked bathroom while a few other members of my family began frantically stuffing towels through the crack of the door. There- it was behind the toilet-but what do I catch it with? There was a small, pink bucket that held some small toothbrushes- they scattered- the mouse scittered- I dove-missed- screams coming from the other side of the door. I stop, look around (beginning to feel less like myself and more like Karen Blixen) after a few more fruitless chases, dives, escapes, and rustling and banging around in the loo, the dust clears, and the mouse goes completely missing. I check behind the toilet, behind the sink, behind the newspaper rack full of gardening magazines, but it’s nowhere.
For a moment, I sit in the middle of the floor with the small pink bucket in my hands, baffled.
Then it hits me.
In one swift moment, I’m flapping my pants like a picnic blanket, and something small and gray and fuzzyish comes bouncing out- completely mad now-the chase is on- it clambers up the doorframe (is that even possible?!) Before I trap it-VICTORY!- slide one of the magazines underneath, and proudly parade it outside where the neighbor is standing (probably wondering what all the fanatic female shrieking had been about). I blessed her (I’ve decided it was a she), carried her to my brick-flower garden (a work in progress), and released her.
This entire event made me start wondering what my true fears are (since wrangling a mouse isn't, nor heights, nor storms), and I couldn't seem to put my finger on it until I was sitting in class one Thursday, and my professor asked if anyone had any writing they wanted to share with the class. INTERNAL PANIC!
How in the blazes do these things connect?!
Alright, Johnny, I'm getting to it!
It wasn't until I was reminded how important writing is to me that I realized how important it is for me to be unashamed and unafraid to offer my writing to the world.
Sometimes writing alone is the hard part (remember, staring at that intimidating, blinking cursor?), and sometimes it’s as easy as breathing (unless you’re underwater without a self-contained underwater breathing apparatus, or you have an asthma attack, but you know what I mean. It’s an expression). But, for me, everything that happens after that is hard, and I suppose it’s about time to change that.
Next time I find myself sitting in class, I'll be prepared to share my work, and not be ashamed of it. My words are precious to me, why should I belittle them whilst presenting them to the world? It's a common occurrence that I'm noting more and more as writers are receiving the message that their work is dispensable. My solution: prove them wrong.
There, now I've given myself and you homework. Be bold and confident with your work; write what matters most to you, to show the world that it matters.
Read on, fellow Writers!
(Below is a video that we watched in the same class I was panicking in earlier. It really does have some excellent advice from writer Andrew Stanton, especially, in my opinion, making sure your characters have a spine!)
https://www.ted.com/talks/andrew_stanton_the_clues_to_a_great_story?language=en
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