Writing (A story)

Writing
Words: 865

He dipped the quill into the ink carefully, almost as if the dip itself gave him the need, the passion, to write on. For he knew that not only does the writer do the writing, the writing does the writer. Once a beginning has been drafted, the story itself emerges gradually out of the shadows and into the light. This phenomenon is one not explored nor researched, but utilized without question. A good author lets his ideas carry him to the next chapter. A story is never, by any means, just words on paper. A story is not a book on a dusty shelf. A story is what binds this world into the state of imagination and of creation. A good story changes the reader in a way they may not understand. They may be more likely to read, or in some cases, to create. A story is not a compilation of the right words; it is a compilation of the right creations.

He dwelled on his ideals for just a moment longer before realizing that he couldn’t finish his story just yet. His pen, covered in fresh ink, fell back into the inkwell from whence it came. The candles in the room seemed to dim and his story sat despondently on the table. The wrinkled paper provided just enough room for one more sentence, a single but ultimately imperative sentence.

For the space in the paper was reserved for the final sentence in his tale. The “ending” as some might refer to it. Of course, this ending would be the most important part of his story and any other for that matter. For the ending is not only a closing to the creations, but also an opening to all who have read it. A good ending is never a definite ending so to speak; a good ending leaves the reader in a mixed state of awe and grief. They are in awe by the pure beauty of the creations, but they grieve for more. Authors and readers alike are prone to this feeling. We know there isn’t more to be told yet our own imagination guides us through what could have been told or what happens but is not told. This is why stories entitle us to a different state of reality, one where our imaginations intertwine with others, a central “nest” of ideas if you will.

He knew that the ending of his story, the door to the nest, could not be unlocked at the present moment. His mind was swirling with ideas and he needed focus.

With that, he left his desk and grabbed a small woolen coat hanging behind the door. Slipping on his boots and tightening his scarf, he opened the door and found himself looking down an empty street, the perfect time for a stroll. No one, no streetlights, no cars, no noise of any kind. The sun had dropped below the horizon hours ago and a soft blanket of freshly fallen snow hid the cement. The stars, though not brightly shining, were all in order, looking down upon the world. For a moment, he thought it was a dream. Then reality smacked him back. It was the same world.

He walked through the street, leaving defined footsteps back to his house, the only footsteps to adorn this new blanket of snow. He was alone and yet he felt alive, more alive than he had earlier. Though no human presence appeared throughout his stroll, he came across many beings. The trees talked to him in their woody whisper, the snow murmured around him and he murmured back, the river refused to freeze and its rushing waters chattered in the cold December air. He listened to all and answered their calls. Taking a seat on a park bench, he spoke for hours on end with nature, and nature spoke back. His mood changed, his ideas changed, his entire self seemed indulged in the unreality of the nest. He never knew if he fell asleep or not, but awaking from his enlightenment, he followed a trail of footsteps back to his house. The night remained as it had and he did not disturb the silence that had unwillingly returned.

Reentering his house with fresh inspiration, he had no time to take off his coat or shoes. Tracking the snow inside the house, and leaving footprints right to his desk, he grabbed the ink-covered pen and put it to the paper. The final sentence formed slowly and diligently. It flowed from his hand like the river, swayed like the trees, and even softened his mood like the new blanket of snow. Within minutes, or hours (he never knew), the sentence was finished. The opening to the nest was complete. He, as a writer, had officially added his creation to the realm of creativity, to the nest. He set the pen carefully on the desk and admired his work. He felt a new sense of joy, a sense that not only he was happy, but everyone in the world, it seemed, was in high spirits. Smiling quietly to himself, he blew out the weary candles and fell into a deep sleep.