I begin where everyone does. Awkwardly. Unsure of their ability. But without a beginning, there can be no finish, so I toe the line. No more will I stand aside as others take their marks and set off without me. I spectate from the sidelines no longer.
Harmony came to group just to hear my new writing, which I never did. I disappointed my friend. There was a time where I would have said this project was ten years in the making, but I know better than that. It’s been five years of avoiding.
Yeah, I don’t know what I’m doing, and the only rules to follow when writing a book are subjective. When you write, you build your body of work. Sure, some of it’s going to be shit, but you have to learn what not to do in order to learn what to do. When gathering firewood, you take what the forest has cast off. You can make predictions on which chunks and sticks will burn hotter and longer than others — which will emit smoke and which will produce flame — but you won’t truly know for sure until you add that fuel to the fire.
I don’t know which pieces of writing will make the book and which will reek with smoke, but I have to take the time to gather those scenes, work through those reflections, until I have a little blaze going. The other thing is, bad wood still adds to the fire. Saint Paul speaks of the quality of each person’s work being revealed by fire, that whatever we build upon the foundation of Christ will be either yield a reward or create loss; however, even the one whose work is burned up will still be saved “even though only as one escaping through the flames.”
I was afraid and buried my talent. I built nothing, thinking it wouldn’t be good enough, but even the worst work still ends in salvation. It’s time to listen to my voice memos again. Not transcribe them, but just enjoy hearing the stories again. It’s time to reread the notes I have written. I will immerse myself in the story, let my guard down, and start building a burn pile ready for ignition.