Put all thoughts aside and simply write. Reconnect with my inner artist/writer.
Here it is:
Prologue
Tell the
stories that are waiting to be told.
The words are written on a strip of paper in bold,
block letters, each one a statement in and of itself, serving as a daily
reminder to him.
He doesn’t know where he first read the line,
but it served as his mantra for the past three years, his own literary guide and drive.
Tell the
stories that are waiting to be told. He reads the words again and closes his eyes.
“What are the stories waiting to be told?”
Music spills from the speakers on his computer, drowning
out everything except the physical presence of his bedroom around him and the tumble
of thoughts in his head.
Minutes pass, lengthen themselves into the form
of an hour, before he finally breaks from reverie. With a startling quickness,
he lunges for the pen lying on the desk and sets pen to paper. The computer is
there but nothing beats the primal relief of gliding a pen tip across off-white
paper. The words appear beneath his hands, sure in their placement, each one sinking
into the blue lines with firm conviction and belonging.
Act I.
Emma:
He writes late in to the night, never once
stopping. Pages fly by. The angry crossing outs that usually pepper his work
stutter to an eventual stop, and the words flow effortlessly. The midnight
silence guides him through his thoughts word by word, line by line. He writes
until his mind and body collapse into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Tell the stories
that are waiting to be told.
Comments would be great :)
