Don't you love it when you start with a piece of
writing so rough you don't think it has a chance of ever making sense, but
you change a word here, remove a word there, add a phrase or two – and
suddenly, right before your eyes, it begins to morph into something worthwhile
– and your spirits soar!
That's what keeps me writing, I think – the possibility of a
beautiful surprise today or tomorrow or somewhere down the road. I’m always
waiting, expecting great words to flow effortlessly from my mind and live
forever.
When I was just a child, I spent a lot of time lying on my
bed writing poems and stories. I still have some of them. When I got married,
my mother gave me two large boxes full of my early writings. My
puffed up ego says, "Keep them. Someday you'll be glad you did." But
the invisible sprite that sits on my shoulder trying to discourage me, says,
"Throw them away. They're worthless!"
I've already reworked some of them and had them published,
but many still linger in their original storage boxes, the paper growing
brown and crisp with age – waiting, knowing that somewhere among them
lives that one story, poem, or turn of phrase that will become immortal. Someday.
Ah... how sweet the hopes and dreams of a writer!
How inflated the ego!
