The Brave

“I’m a Writer..

I’m a Writer..

I’m a Writer.”

I was chanting.. or more praying in my head.

“I know I can do this. I’m a Writer.”

I have been writing for as long as I can remember. I’m a born story teller. I’ve been writing ideas on the backs of envelopes and the corners of napkins. In the margins of worksheets back in school.

But writing is.. doing. And I feel naked in the doing.

Being a writer in the future is so much safer.

So if I’m a Writer.. right now, that means I have to truly try in front of the world.

I can see my characters in the world I’ve built around them. I know them like old friends. I want the world to know them too. And honestly

I just can’t be a little chicken about it for one more second.

The art is already there. I just have to.. make it. And I decided this morning to rid myself of all my excuses. I have the ideas now. I have the goods now.

So I got up and went to the craft store. Fresh notebook pages make me feel ready to start something new.

I was walking through the aisles at a snail pace feeling my procrastination last stitch effort to keep my life the same.

“I’m a Writer..

I’m a Writer!”

My mental tone was borderline defensive. Desperate really. If the writing Gods can hear me.

“I’m a Writer!”

“So, write.”

It was written in simple gold font stitched on a black notebook.

“So, write.”

Reading the simple, matter of fact response to my mental plea had me so shocked and put out that I grabbed the notebook, marched to the cashier, and bought it before I even realized what I was doing.

I got home with my new notebook and felt ridiculously motivated

-for about 15 minutes.

Then imposter syndrome said I should cry and nap instead. Fabulous idea. I did just that.

Two hours later, puffy eyed and semi rested, I tried again.

I reached into the gift bag, but didn’t feel any stitching under my fingers. Not where it was supposed to be at least. When I pull it out, the Cover is blank. Blank. Black. Smooth. The side binding however wasn’t. Where before there had been nothing, “Saraswati” was now written in a pretty gold script.

That word, a name I thought, rang a bell in my head. Where had I heard it? And how did this happen? I watched the cashier handle the notebook. I thought. But for some reason.. it just didn’t seem that important. I needed a notebook, and I got one.

It was time.

I opened the notebook. It was full of fresh blank pages. Totally empty with the exception of a small passage on the front page.

“Artist, Tell me a Story about Courage.”

-S

I interpreted this as a writing prompt from the author. I’d written a short entry about a running supportive character from one of my many mental novels. She was wild, and curious. I thought of the prompt as a Novella or a Spin off. I let myself get into a rhythm. This was one of the loves of my life, writing. And when I was done I felt calm.

It wasn’t perfect, but I’m a writer. So I wrote. I wrote something honest and gave myself the practice my art needs from me. I was proud. I made a resolution to myself and all the characters waiting for me to hone my craft, I’d keep practicing regularly.

I put my notebook on the nightstand and went about my day.

The next morning when my phone alarm sounded, and naturally I swatted it. instead of my screen, I felt the crush of something papery give way under my hand.

It was a small paper flower, wilted and warped from my slap, but beautiful and intricate. It looked like patterned blue paper, folded into a lotus. I looked to my nightstand.. and really the rest of my bedroom. Paper lotuses spilled from my nightstand to the floor. Hundreds of them, on my dresser and window sill and at the foot of my bed. Like paintings of water lilies on still water.. they were everywhere. It was staggering, but quieting to. everything inside of me.

I took a closer look at the paper flower in my hand. Realizing the pattern was familiar as I began to wake up and really process what I was seeing. It wasn’t pattered blue paper.. the flower was made from a crisp, $100 bill. Looking around I realized, so were all the others.

A lotus, folded so simply and sincerely sat on the notebook. I opened it to see a new passage after my practice entry.

“Thank you Artist for your tail of courage. Now let me tell you one. yesterday a young woman made the choice to believe in her voice and start her life as a writer.

Here is my gift to you.

Be Blessed.

-Saraswati

Patron Goddess to Artists.