On Writing

Today I saw this mountainside:

And I realized that I have untold volumes inside me. Stories waiting to be told. They lurk in dark corners of my mind and wait for me to grab hold of them. And I will. I will pull them out still wriggling and carve them on blank pages. I will watch and grow as they develop into a vision that will surpass even the spectacular beauty of God's etch-a-sketch that surrounds us. Maybe that's blasphemous. I don't care. I think God wants us to be better than him. Just as any loving parent hopes for their child.

And maybe that is why we read. There is something about the written word that catches our attention. I for one have felt more connected to nature while reading Wordsworth than when I walked along the Swiss countryside. It's not to say that nature has no merit. But perhaps we tend to focus on the mosquitoes in our ears and the sweat on our necks more than how beautiful the alpine lakes are that are right in front of us. Maybe we trust print more. And just maybe that is why God caused the Bible to be written. I'm sure he could have just revealed the truth through visions easily enough.

All I know is that there are stories in there somewhere. Right now they are in embryo. Incubating. I can feel them when I see gaps in the clouds. I sense them when I turn to see the sun shining on a snow-covered mountainside. Intimations of the potential in me shine through momentarily when I write for other people. Soon I will be able enough to write for myself. Soon I will know enough to do all that potential justice. Until then...

[Keep following. Why? Because Arnold said so.]