And so, the writer writes.
On and on the writer writes, writing of hopes and fears and cliches and ideas, some so mundane he screams with boredom, some so new he laughs with glee, all of them rising unbidden from somewhere behind his eyes, slinking into his heart and streaming down his arm into the fingers of his right hand and onto a page, a page he sometimes doesn’t recognize because of the transformation that occurs as the thoughts make their journey to black and white.
“I made this.” The child at the end of every X-Files episode was so proud and happy to share what s/he made. Likewise, I’m sure, is this little boy with the beer belly and his feet up on the recliner — hoping that what he made is what he meant to say, or failing that, that it means something meaningful enough to enough people that it makes enough of a difference in the world that he may be justifiably proud to say, “I made this.”
I made this. It’s not really for me to say whether I made something grand or life-changing — although it did change my life to be able to show a finished product to you and declare, yes, indeed, I did make this, and I sincerely hope you’re glad I did.
A man in blue bicycles slowly to the finish line — or is it the starting chute? — and nods in my direction.
“So it’s you who made this, then? It’s something, isn’t it? It sure is something. If nothing else, it’s the latest project you’ve completed front to back, and yes, that is something.”
