There is a time when your unborn child, your writing, begs to be born. This is the moment when the empty page taunts you and screams at you with the beauty of its lines, or lack thereof. It says, “Fill me with your love, feed me your ideas. Impregnate my paper womb with your love of words that can give birth to the sentences of beauty and the angelic paragraphs that tell the world that I am born anew.”
It is at that moment I cradle my notebook in my trembling hand with love and do exactly that. I fill the pages with scribbles that I love to write, and the purity, the innocence of ignorance slowly disappears. Then the notebook is filled with something that is neither mine nor the pen’s nor the page’s. It’s a living breathing story child created fresh from the pen in my tired hand and the not-so-new notebook on the table.
It is done. The difficult process of creation and birth is over. The raw first draft is complete. After some time the process of making love to the page commences again, the exquisite editing of the story takes place. Gone are the misspelled words, clumsy paragraphs, inappropriate images, dead characters, superfluous adverbs and adjectives. With a steady hand that has already forgotten the nervous first kiss and handholding of the pen and the blank page, the story grows from childhood to teenhood. The not-so-fragile second draft is done. It is still underage and not ready for the undressing that strange eyes will undoubtedly put it through.
More time passes and this time our lovemaking is passionate and kinky in places as new ideas and images are inserted in the right places. The shy first love and the inexperience of youth are both left behind for new adventures. Beware, there is danger here. The slut that emerges from the page this time is begging to be stripped bare and read in all its glory by you, The Reader. This is the story I let you read and give feedback on. This takes time because the story is begging to be read by everyone.
When this young story returns to me, it is wiser and more careful about its body and its boasting bravado. I lovingly rewrite it into middle age and then again into old age, a powerful state that will stand the tests of time and the hungry eyes that will try to devour it and destroy it.
This is the path of my story, the story, perhaps even your story; from the scary first kiss of ink and paper, its creation, to the lovemaking called editing and rewriting, to eventual publication. The rest is history and the many first kisses and subsequent sessions of hard work, of lovemaking, of word-making, word-shaping, all to ensure perfection, are quickly forgotten in the beautiful thing on the page before you, The Reader. Read on and enjoy the story, it’s ready for you now. It is my child, my parent, and my love. Read it as you will. Thank you