When I was 20 years old, I was told that some day, I would write love the way people have been trying to capture it for generations.
That statement has become one with my spirit, it isn’t discouraging or overwhelming, it is driving. It is part of the fuel that keeps me writing, that keeps me awake when there is story that need written.
I never had plans of sharing my writing. I can hear the snorts of laughter and incredulity from people who have read my blogs. Yes, I’m more used to the idea now, but writing started as my Emily Dickinson time capsule.
When he said that, it forced me into the light. 13 years later, that thought has grown. More than wanting to write something that makes people feel, I want to write something that lingers. I want 1000 years from now, when we are the ancients and someone is excavating my house, for them to find my tales and feel like the person who first read Homer felt.
I want to write something that adds to what we are as a people.
I was reading a paper for a school assignment called The Sound of Ice by Tyler Lacoma and he said:
“The stories of the Eskimo peoples have collapsed beneath us. Ka-krack. All we have are pieces. Legends and tales were passed down, orally, from family to family until they grew so fragile they now crumble to dust at a glance. It’s hard to explain how this feels, until you understand that these little fairy tales are the lifeblood of a people. Who are the Greeks without grey-eyed Athena and cunning Odysseus? Who are the Norse without grinning Loki and blustering Thor? Something…but less.”
I haven’t even finished the paper (I am so relived to finally be assigned to read something in a class I actually like so far) but I feel the weight of words that feel like a mission statement…. And I wrote a quick short story in Seraphim City, the first in months.
I should be doing homework but this is better.