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| Copyright Someone Else. I own nothing. |
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| Copyright Someone Else. I own nothing. |
Saturday, October 25
The Offspring of Midnight and and Overactive Mind
Last night a scene from my story suddenly forced its way into my mind, and my hand snapped on the light and started writing before I knew what I was doing. It was an absolutely precious moment between two of my characters, and somehow these beyond-brilliant little pieces were reflected in the scene.
Friday, October 24
Courage
And bravery is not the same as being fearless. Is anybody really fearless? If you care about anything at all, don't you fear for it? Fear drags us back from whatever could come between us and the things we care about. It can protect us - and it can kill us.
Because we care about the wrong things. I care too much about my safety, so I'm afraid to walk on an old fencetop. I care too much about looking perfect, so I'm afraid to get up on that stage and risk failure. I care about whether I hurt someone, so I'm afraid to say anything.
Fear can be helpful. It can stop of from doing something foolish. But fear isn't a motivator. It's a paralyzer. Fear tells us what not to do.
Courage tells us what to do.
It's too easy to think, 'If only I wasn't afraid of the dark, then I'd be brave.'
'If only I wasn't afraid of dying, then I'd be brave.'
'If only I wasn't afraid of letting them down, I'd be brave.'
But fear of dying tells us that we care about life. You can't care about something without the fear of losing it.
Bravery isn't fearing nothing. It's choosing to do what's right, regardless of what we fear. Fearlessness kills the dragon. Bravery leaps on its back and rides it.
So you're going to take up your sword, go out there, and save the day? Maybe that's not courage. Maybe you're hiding behind that sword. Put the weapon down. That's courage.
Fear and care, bravery and hope. They go hand in hand.
Yes, I'm afraid of sinning because I care about obeying God. But I'm not going to let it stop me from facing each day, knowing I'm going to make mistakes. I have hope that he'll forgive me again and again, and that gives me courage.
The fear of the LORD is the beginning of knowledge, but fools despise wisdom and instruction. ~Proverbs 1:17
Thursday, October 23
The Making of a Character
It starts with an idea. One idea. A small idea.
A sentence.
A picture.
A face.
A hairstyle.
A hair color.
A feeling.
A mood.
A dream.
A song.
A memory.
A place.
An object.
A blank document.
A blank sheet of paper.
It's the seed out of which a universe springs; countless fates intertwined, spread across miles of land and centuries of time. Histories grow, nations branch out, peoples spread, languages blossom. Thousands, millions, billions - infinite ideas sprout from one.
And all of it happens under my nose, and I'm hardly aware of it. Somewhere in my subconscious, all of this is taking place, and I only notice a few outward signs.
Someone opens a window. Suddenly the picture is breathing, living, right before my eyes. It's a person. She speaks to me. She must have spoken to me, or I wouldn't know how I know all that I know about her. She's shy, quiet, and insecure. She always steps down, lets the other person go first, speak first, take the first prize. She has a loving heart. She has flaws. But she hasn't told them to me yet.
It only took an instant. Just like that, the information's there. It's in my head, and suddenly I don't just know about her. I know her. If I keep listening she'll tell me more, and I won't know I'm being told until just after she's finished speaking.
So now she's in my head. She talks a lot, but somehow I only hear her words on rare occasions.
She's pushing on me from the inside. She wants to get out, and she's not waiting to explain why. There's an empty notebook, the perfect landing pad. Before I know what she's doing, she's jumped onto the paper and made it her home. It's become a doorway to her world, a doorway through which anyone can step. And every page that she allows me to write is another door, each one leading to a different place.
Finally, I lay down my pencil with a sigh. Suddenly, she's not just in my head. She's on paper. She doesn't just exist for me. She exists for others.
A sentence.
A picture.
A face.
A hairstyle.
A hair color.
A feeling.
A mood.
A dream.
A song.
A memory.
A place.
An object.
A blank document.
A blank sheet of paper.
It's the seed out of which a universe springs; countless fates intertwined, spread across miles of land and centuries of time. Histories grow, nations branch out, peoples spread, languages blossom. Thousands, millions, billions - infinite ideas sprout from one.
And all of it happens under my nose, and I'm hardly aware of it. Somewhere in my subconscious, all of this is taking place, and I only notice a few outward signs.
Someone opens a window. Suddenly the picture is breathing, living, right before my eyes. It's a person. She speaks to me. She must have spoken to me, or I wouldn't know how I know all that I know about her. She's shy, quiet, and insecure. She always steps down, lets the other person go first, speak first, take the first prize. She has a loving heart. She has flaws. But she hasn't told them to me yet.
It only took an instant. Just like that, the information's there. It's in my head, and suddenly I don't just know about her. I know her. If I keep listening she'll tell me more, and I won't know I'm being told until just after she's finished speaking.
So now she's in my head. She talks a lot, but somehow I only hear her words on rare occasions.
She's pushing on me from the inside. She wants to get out, and she's not waiting to explain why. There's an empty notebook, the perfect landing pad. Before I know what she's doing, she's jumped onto the paper and made it her home. It's become a doorway to her world, a doorway through which anyone can step. And every page that she allows me to write is another door, each one leading to a different place.
Finally, I lay down my pencil with a sigh. Suddenly, she's not just in my head. She's on paper. She doesn't just exist for me. She exists for others.
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