A Yearning To Create

I stood in front of the white door, with white papers, and black words. My mind was swarmed with a river of meaningless thoughts. From this river, one stuck out. "I will never be able to create anything this beautiful." Of all things, this I was sure of. As the initial state of awe wore off and the second phase arose I began thinking more clearly. The papers came back into focus. The words on the sheets could be made out once again. The source of my mind paralysis was obvious once more. The sheets were abound, nearly ten of them, all were equally as intricately flowing and beautifully enticing. The words on the wall all made up poems, there were poems on the wall, all created by someone I knew closely. On the bottom of each of the pages there was an initialed signature. It read, SCK. It was my brother that had kept my legs from moving, my mouth from closing, and my mind from slowing to a halt. It was him who had written these poems. "I will never be able to create anything this beautiful."

Yet I knew that I had to. These poems had put me in a strange sort of trance. A trance existent only in its own existence. After the second state of awe passed, a new feeling surfaced. Though I was no less amazed by the radiance, I no longer felt the same way. It was different. "I will never be able to create anything this beautiful." And I wanted to so badly. The yearning to create consumed me. I wanted to pass down this feeling, these states of awe. I wanted to write. I wanted to create something as brilliant as he had. I wanted something of mine to be worth half of any single one of those poems. So I strayed away. Regaining the power in my muscles I dropped to the couch, never taking my eye off of the sporadic spray of black upon the sovereign white. And as I finally took them away, slow and unsure, I was immensely confused. It was not my intentions that confused me, it was about the writing. I knew one thing and only one, I wanted to write something, to create some form of literature. Would it be a poem, as my inspiration had been? No, poems are too difficult, they require a great amount of thought, that was not what I wanted. I wanted something where I could write and write and not care about what exactly I was writing. It didn't have to be good, or make sense, but I needed to write. I decided on starting a book. This was only the first step. I was feeling more energetic and looking forward to my progression on this novel. But one thought, or rather, one fact stayed in my head. "I will never be able to create anything this beautiful."

But regardless of this obvious truth I forced myself off the couch. Taking one more short glance at the wall I turned to my own room. This is where I would start, I had a computer in there, a computer upon which to write. I slowly and excitedly paced to the room. The white door swung open. As I sat down the computer started up. I opened a Microsoft wordpad and my biggest dilemma came now. I stared at the white screen for many moments. Many minutes passed, no less than ten. No thought ran through my head. How was one expected to start a novel when they have no preset for it? All I had was an overwhelming desire to write, an overpowering longing to create, and sporadic sprays of black upon the sovereign white. In my head was nothing but this. The blank whiteness enraged me. Why must everything empty be white?! Where would I start? How could I manage to fulfill this desire? How did Scott, my brother do it? Where did he find the words? And suddenly, I started. The words appeared on the screen before passing through my mind more than once. I wrote about a boy who set out to avenge his murdered parents. A very rudimentary and simple plot. But it was a plot, I finally had an advent to my story. As I wrote one thought stayed with me, or rather, one fact stayed with me. "I could create something even more beautiful."

Not two years later, the ending arose, after long days of hard work there was an end to the novel. But it was not the same novel. Four stories and well drawn out plots arose and then fell like empires crashing to the ground. Characters disappeared from existence, plots never occured, places were no longer heard of. Since then writing has been a passion of mine. I write, not only novels, the first of which I am sure will be published soon after the revising process, but I also write my own quotes. It doesn't end here, I have more than six plot synopsis' for future books once the first is finished. I doubt that I could explain this passion better than using a quote from one of my favorite books, The World According To Garp. "Imagining something is better than remembering something." True to this quote perhaps my favorite thing about writing fiction is creating an imaginary world, being able to create the tiniest details according to your own perfect, or not so perfect world. The art of fiction draws me in because of the amount of power you have in your world. Whatever you think should happen will, however you want one to act, he will do so. If it had not been for the black upon white, none of this would have been discovered. This great passion of mine which may even lead to a career would have never have been realized.