The Power in What is Written

He could feel his heart racing as he stared at the strange words on the page. There could be no doubt that it was his own distinctive handwriting, especially since he had just written it with his own hand. He stared at those words for some time, trying in vain to explain how they could have gotten there by some other means. Could the little black notebook have had someone else's writing in it already, and he had simply failed to notice? No, he remembered the first page being blank before he put his pen to it.

It was actually the words themselves that had startled him so, for it was not his thoughts that had been written there. He had decided to finally write down some of his ideas for a fictional book, took out the new notebook he had purchased online, and sat down to make a fresh start on what he had been dreaming of doing for years, but had never really seriously attempted. He had been thinking of a classical beginning like, “Once upon a time,” but with a twist such as, “It happened once…” Instead, to his own amazement and great confusion, he wrote, "Be it wasted or wished, squandered or spent, there is power in what is written here for good or for ill. Know that it will be for ill, if written for the benefit of the writer alone."

He slammed the notebook closed and sat back in his chair. It must be the stress finally getting to him. No doubt it was the fault of that stack of unpaid bills lying on the corner of his desk, always clamoring for his attention. He looked away from that stack with a sigh and his eyes came to rest on his old, beat-up laptop sitting on the other corner, with its fan wheezing away trying to ward off the long-expected meltdown of its processor. His state of mind could also have been the fault of the news headlines that lined the laptop’s faded screen, which rarely proclaimed anything but bad news, amid advertisements for things he wanted but could not afford. He decided that it could be either or both that was stressing him to the point of insanity.

He tried to dismiss the words that he had apparently written in the notebook, but he found himself opening it back up again instead. The words were still there, beckoning or tempting him, he wasn't entirely sure which. Laying aside his skepticism, he decided to figure out what it could mean. The two sentences clearly conveyed both a promise and a warning. The word "power" evoked the idea of "ability" rather than “authority” to him, as in the ability to do something. When paired with the words "wasted" and "squandered," it spoke of power given but not used appropriately, of power possessed but not shared generously. Paired with the words "wished" and "spent," it took on a more positive connotation, speaking of power wanted and granted, of power used and something accomplished. He especially focused on the promise of “power” to be found "in what is written here." Could it be that this little black notebook has the power to bring about whatever is written in it?

Feeling a little foolish, he took up his pen and turned the page. The thought of a good friend came suddenly to his mind. He could almost see her in the hospital, battling for every breath against the virus that was sure to kill her if nothing changed. So, he wrote a different outcome instead. He told of her waking up and then sitting up in her bed, to the astonishment of the nurses and doctors who rushed to her side. Next, he described the moment when the doctor walked into the waiting room and told her brother that she had made a sudden reversal and would likely survive after all.

It made him smile as he looked at what he had written. It was then that his phone rang, and his mouth fell open when he saw the caller ID. He answered the call with a trembling hand. It was his friend's brother, telling him that she had made a sudden turnaround and was expected to make a full recovery. He stumbled through words of congratulations and then hung up, stunned by the implications.

With more excitement than he had ever felt, he looked back to the notebook and turned to the next page with his pen poised and ready. The possibilities of such power were intoxicating. What should he write into existence next? Who should he help now? He glanced at the stack of bills and hesitated, thinking that what he was considering was surely for good rather than ill. Having convinced himself, he thought of how much money was needed and began to list each amount on the page. Instead of a story like he had written before, it was a simple tally that seemed strangely inappropriate to be written there. He wrote down the total and started to close the notebook, but then suddenly decided to add a few thousand more than he needed, making it a grand total of twenty thousand dollars.

He closed the notebook and rubbed his eyes, hoping that he was not losing his mind. When he looked again, the notebook was bulging slightly. He picked it up and a couple of one-hundred-dollar bills slid out on to the desk. As he flipped through the pages of the notebook, he found even more bills stuffed between all the other pages. He held his breath as he counted them, until he had exactly twenty thousand dollars in his hands.

He jumped to his feet and shouted, which was probably what brought his wife into the room. It took quite a bit of explaining, but the existence of the money was very convincing. By noon the next day, the money was deposited and the checks were written toward their debts. The rest of the day was spent planning what nice things they might get for themselves with the extra money, since they had denied themselves of many wants for so long.

It was not until that evening that he returned to his study, with thoughts of writing something even more beneficial to his finances. He opened that wonderful little notebook and began turning pages, but he was shocked at what he found inside. The first page still had those strange words, but the second page containing the story of his friend's recovery was gone like it had never been written. Instead, all he saw was the page filled with the tally of his bills.

He suddenly felt very guilty. Had he written for ill, to only benefit himself? Deep down he knew the answer and feared the implications. At that moment, his phone vibrated with an incoming message, and his heart sank when he read it. His friend had relapsed as suddenly as she had recovered, and her chances of survival were now slim. He buried his face in his hands and cried tears of shame over what he had done. It had not occurred to him that there could be this kind of repercussion to what he wrote.

It was then that he realized the power was not in the little notebook itself, but in what was written there, just as it had said. The rest became clearer too. Wishes only for his wants were wasted, and power squandered on his purposes was misspent. When he wrote for good, the power brought about what was written as promised. When he wrote for ill, the power worked the same, but the good he had written was replaced by it. He only hoped that what he wrote for good from now on could make up for what he had caused for ill.

He looked up and began to imagine all the possibilities. Could he end all suffering and death with the stroke of a pen? Could he bring about a lasting peace between the nations with just a few lines on a page? Could all wrongs be righted and all rights restored with mere words? Were there any limits to the power that could be unleashed through what is written? He trembled as he took up his pen, and said aloud, “Why don’t we find out?” Taking a deep breath, he turned the page to write again.