On Writing

I was thinking that I could be a writer someday. I would write stories about life and how people find themselves during the normalcy that we all try to avoid. I would send these stories into a publisher and they would be wrapped and bound with the cape of wisdom that comes to published works. The picture on the front would not represent the characters or ideas in my imagination, as any artistic representation could not do justice to the boundless nature of my irrepressible mind. The pictures would stunt the minds of readers, who looked to these renderings in order to guide their thoughts. My thoughts and words would act as a guide to those looking for their own creative outlet, and I could sleep better at night knowing that my stories had found a place in the hearts of millions.

And then the message popped on my screen that my battery would soon switch over to reserve power, and in only a few minute's time, the power would shut off to preserve the work I had created. How would I ever be able to share my soul's story in fewer than 35 minutes? With life oozing out of my computer, my fingers are not propelled fast enough to compensate for the waning energy. I'll turn off the superfluous programs, darken the screen, and hope to God that these small measures allow me a few extra minutes of synapses and sentences. There would never be another time for me to say these things. Now, with my eyes squinting to see the dimness of my screen, I know that my plans for a marvelous story are well under way.

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