I’ve heard it said that writing is a journey, but what does that mean
exactly? Does that mean you might as well prepare for an arduous, uphill
trip? Or maybe they simply mean writing is like a marathon race, a
long, slow road, with stops along the way to grab a cup of water?
So far, my own journey is more like a surprise, a box you open, and inside isn’t a prize, but another box, and you open it, to find yet another box. And another, all of them increasingly smaller and smaller, until the very last box is so small your fingers and thumb dwarf the teeny box.
But you open it anyway, because Pandora lives in each of us, that
need to know what is on the inside. And inside the box is a seed, a
kernel, perhaps even a bit of stardust. But just enough to keep us
going, to keep writing, keep trying.
Have you opened your boxes yet? And when you came to the very last one, what did you find?
So far, my own journey is more like a surprise, a box you open, and inside isn’t a prize, but another box, and you open it, to find yet another box. And another, all of them increasingly smaller and smaller, until the very last box is so small your fingers and thumb dwarf the teeny box.
Have you opened your boxes yet? And when you came to the very last one, what did you find?
