The Tip of a Pen

Nothing delights the way words strung masterfully together do: a poem, the lyrics to a song, a book, or a screenplay. The unassuming stateliness of the setting sun, the quiet elegance of an old oak tree, the flamboyant expression of the heavens on a stormy night, and the knowing smile of a beloved may be the only ones that can rival their beauty. And perhaps I am alone in this thought, but they have an unmistakable taste to them; a rich, creamy deliciousness served on a page.

Love is a tricky thing. Who remembers the exact moment they fell for the object of their affection? Words, like a shy suitor, wooed me with their mystery and understated strength. Before I knew it, my heart was gripped with an obsession that could only be blamed on Lucy Maud Montgomery, Roald Dahl, Madeleine L’Engle, C.S. Lewis, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Lewis Carroll, and the Brothers Grimm. They were my muses; warriors who wielded their weapon of choice with such panache you can’t help but wish you were worthy to pick up their pens and had the temerity to brandish them as they did. By the time I discovered Carolyn Keene and Franklin W. Dixon in 4th grade, I was beyond infatuated as evidenced by the recurring cast of characters in my head who starred most of the stories I made up. And when the likes of Harper Lee, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez came into my life, I was head-over-heels in love with no hope for a cure.

When God spoke the universe into existence, He gave words the permission to shape it; and writers were given a special gift, a unique mandate to participate in its evolution. Think about the empires that rose and crumbled at the mouth of an inkwell, the generations influenced by the quick strokes of a quill, and a millennium worth of stories that changed history for good.

Yes, God certainly knew what He was doing when He gave us words. People have come and gone across the centuries and our only link to some of them are the writings they left behind. They are immortalized in our minds and their hearts continue to beat in ours as they whisper across time as though time does not matter, or exists. As I reflect on the connection I feel towards them who have once walked this good earth, I am humbled by the idea that they were unafraid to bare their souls to a girl born thousands of years after they're long gone. Or that the characters they created could be more real to her than the person she's standing next to.

So, I write.

Because I want to.

Because I need to.

Because a thousand years from now, a little girl would be hanging on to every word and the characters I create could be the only friends she'll ever make.

Tip