“…you know that a good, long session of weeping can often make you feel better, even if your circumstances have not changed one bit.” ― Lemony Snicket, The Bad Beginning
I cried yesterday.
I cried over a lost manuscript.
What kind of a woman, though her heart is breaking, doesn’t shed a tear over her father’s medical diagnosis but cries over a stupid lost manuscript?
And yet I knew the lost manuscript was not the reason I was crying, but merely the breaking point.
I cried for the loss of words, those which had been written, those yet to be written, and those hidden in the heart.
I cried for the little girl cowering within this grown woman, petrified at the thought of life without her Daddy.
I cried for time, the hours slipping through my fingers and into oblivion.
I prayed. I prayed for my father. I prayed for my family. I accepted reality. I told God the way it was…I didn’t have it in me to start my novel over. I told him I’d take its loss as a sign I wasn’t meant to write it. I told Him how dear it was to my heart, and I asked if I was meant to write it to please help me find the manuscript. I was at peace.
I opened my laptop back up…the manuscript file was open, right in front of my face. It was there all along, but I couldn’t see it. Perhaps stress had clouded my vision. Perhaps I just couldn’t see for looking.
I’ve had all the time in the world to write this book, and I’ve used every excuse I could find not to complete it. Mainly, it’s not good enough, and I can’t do it. And now, here I am running against time…
…And now I have a job to do. I must finish my story for the man who blessed me with the gift of story. He’s the greatest story teller I’ve ever known. I owe him this.