For as long as I can remember, I've been a writer, driven by a need to tell stories.
The earliest story I can remember writing was an assignment in second grade. It was a science-fiction story, written in the second person, about someone who time-traveled back to a blizzard in Massachusetts the winter of 1620 and met a pilgrim in the woods.
It was pretty bad stuff, and came complete with sound effects; but that didn't stop it from ending up on my grandmother's refrigerator. Also shared: an essay I'd written about the candlelight service at church on Christmas Eve.
I'd like to think the quality of my writing has improved since then -- by seventh grade I was writing "Moby Dick" fanfic that invariably involved the great whale trashing the middle school I attended while it fought off Ahab and his crew -- but that need to write has never gone away.
I have hobbies and fixations, I love my children and my wife, and I'm driven by the deep mysteries of life, but writing is what ties it all together. All around me is a world in pain. Writing is how I describe the injuries and how to set the bones. This is a divine spark planted in me before I was even born. Writing is not something I do; it's who I am. When I don't write, I begin to die.
You have this calling too.
Stop and think about the dream that animates you, the way that you know can help mend this broken world. It’s your personal mission or quest, the thing that you long to work at, the task that leaves you satisfied and fulfilled while you work at it. Maybe you're one of the fortunates with a career you find deeply fulfilling, or maybe you celebrate the quiet sacrament of cooking food to sow peace over a shared meal.
Whatever it is, it’s the sort of thing you need to do, but somehow it's not happening. The world is broken, and you know a way to fix part it, but somehow you keep not getting around to it, not like you'd like to.
A friend of mine from Georgia just announced this morning that she had sold a piece of speculative fiction to a magazine. I’m excited for her. This is her first step toward realizing a larger dream, of becoming a successful, published author.
It also was a needed reminder about all the half-begun stories littering my hard drive, and the notebooks I have crammed with ideas for characters, story scenes, three-act plays, essays, verse, polemics and God knows what else.
Out in my yard is a branch that fell from a tree back in January. Today I went outside and found the branch beginning to bud. It’s already dead, but that branch is so determined to accomplish its purpose, that even death won’t stop it.
What’s your reason?
The earliest story I can remember writing was an assignment in second grade. It was a science-fiction story, written in the second person, about someone who time-traveled back to a blizzard in Massachusetts the winter of 1620 and met a pilgrim in the woods.
It was pretty bad stuff, and came complete with sound effects; but that didn't stop it from ending up on my grandmother's refrigerator. Also shared: an essay I'd written about the candlelight service at church on Christmas Eve.
I'd like to think the quality of my writing has improved since then -- by seventh grade I was writing "Moby Dick" fanfic that invariably involved the great whale trashing the middle school I attended while it fought off Ahab and his crew -- but that need to write has never gone away.
I have hobbies and fixations, I love my children and my wife, and I'm driven by the deep mysteries of life, but writing is what ties it all together. All around me is a world in pain. Writing is how I describe the injuries and how to set the bones. This is a divine spark planted in me before I was even born. Writing is not something I do; it's who I am. When I don't write, I begin to die.
You have this calling too.
Stop and think about the dream that animates you, the way that you know can help mend this broken world. It’s your personal mission or quest, the thing that you long to work at, the task that leaves you satisfied and fulfilled while you work at it. Maybe you're one of the fortunates with a career you find deeply fulfilling, or maybe you celebrate the quiet sacrament of cooking food to sow peace over a shared meal.
Whatever it is, it’s the sort of thing you need to do, but somehow it's not happening. The world is broken, and you know a way to fix part it, but somehow you keep not getting around to it, not like you'd like to.
A friend of mine from Georgia just announced this morning that she had sold a piece of speculative fiction to a magazine. I’m excited for her. This is her first step toward realizing a larger dream, of becoming a successful, published author.
It also was a needed reminder about all the half-begun stories littering my hard drive, and the notebooks I have crammed with ideas for characters, story scenes, three-act plays, essays, verse, polemics and God knows what else.
Out in my yard is a branch that fell from a tree back in January. Today I went outside and found the branch beginning to bud. It’s already dead, but that branch is so determined to accomplish its purpose, that even death won’t stop it.
What’s your reason?
Copyright © 2019 by David Learn. Used with permission.
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