THE
THE NEwSLETTER of PENNwRITERS INC. JULy/AUGUST 2016 • VoL. XXIV No. 4
The Power of a Writer by CHRISTIANA REULING, AREA 1
What does imagination look like? When all is still, and you’ve retreated inside yourself to fling open that inner window, enticing breezes drifting in and your mind drifting out, what do you see? What lies beyond? Perhaps it’s a sunbaked sandy beach, the waves rolling up and studding it with shells. For some it might be the coolness of the jungle floor, with tropical fruits dangling from branches like gems and untold wonders behind every tree. Maybe it’s the pinprick explosion of light that makes up a galaxy of unfamiliar planets to be discovered and explored. In my mind there is a town square. When I roll back into my imagination, the first thing I see is the green, dotted with redbuds and weeping willow trees. There are wellmaintained gardens filled with riotous blooms, benches for the weary, a fountain lined with wishing pennies. A statue of a woman stands in the center, though I have never managed to get close enough to make out her features or determine why she has been immortalized in this way. Through the leaves of the trees, I can see the brick facades that make up the shopping district that borders the square, and beyond those, houses and cottages marching away from it in tidy lines. All day long people walk by, going about their business, living out their lives, just trying to get through the day as I suppose all of us are. The only thing that makes them different, the only thing that sets them apart, is that they are not real. They are a figment of my imagination. Or are they? I often wonder how it is with characters. Am I truly the one who thought them up? The all-powerful creator breathing them into being? Or do they slip like ghosts through different worlds, from one writer’s imagination to the next, staying long enough to pique our interest, but moving on if we do not act upon them? I follow them. On the one hand, it feels creepy, almost peeping-tom-ish, to quicken my steps behind them, ducking around corners and hiding behind trees, trying to discover where they will go. A force drives me on. I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears, my breath coming in a rush as I race to catch up. It is the one thing that always propels me forward.
Story. I want to know their story. Though it is truly more of a need than a want. Everyone who has ever been and everyone who ever will be—every animal, every tree, every building, every rock, real or imagined—has a story. Stories are the way we connect, the way we communicate, the way we acknowledge everything and everyone around us. We are all stories. So I follow. Sometimes these imaginary people simply pick up the pace and leave me in the dust to wonder. Others exchange glances, maybe even half-hearted smiles, but remain closed off. Still, I observe quietly and pick up clues about their mannerisms, the way they interact with others. Are they always in a hurry? Are they kind? But every once, in a while I get lucky. I make myself known, sit down, and be still. And if I’m quiet enough and if the peace offering I’ve brought is enticing enough, perhaps one will approach me. Like a baby fawn, unsteady and unsure, but curious. Timid steps and questioning eyes. But in that moment that we make contact—BAM! A flash of story. A scene, a few lines of dialogue, a snippet of prose. But it is enough. Enough to get me started. But it’s not over. The work has just begun. Now comes the trust-building, the cajoling, the eking out of the full picture. It takes time and patience. If I’m too forceful, too quick to judge, if I startle my character, he may dash off into the beyond and disappear. It might take weeks or months or years to build that trust again. Or that character may get spooked and flee, bounding off into some other writer’s imagination. Try it and see. If you are patient and kind, if you listen instead of speak, if you don’t impose yourself into it, if you let your characters tell it their own way, if you are selfless and willing to step aside and be only a vessel, then bit by bit, word by word, page by page, the story will be revealed to you. And it will blow your mind, and you will laugh, and you will cry at the pure pleasure that birthing a brand-new story into this world can bring. Perhaps the true power of a writer is having no power at all. Christiana Reuling was this year's first place winner of the In Other Words Contest for fiction, held during the 2016 Pennwriters Conference. She also blogs and films papercrafting YouTube tutorials as Christy Gets Crafty.