I have gradually begun to realize that I am far from being a writer. Maybe I am creative, and know my characters, and can formulate a proper plot. But I am still not a writer. Writers are supposed to be nimble with words. They are supposed to spin you around, weave you into a world that is not your own, crush your feelings with a few strokes of a pen. Funnily enough, I am none of these things. My phrasing is clunky, my words used too many times on the same page. Repetitive. Repetitive. Repetitive. I know who my characters are, but when I sit down to write them, they elude my fingertips. Instead of weaving a web of stories, I weave myself a web of self-doubt. I say to myself, “I can fix this. I will fix this during editing,” but when the time comes, I am paralyzed, caught in the realization that it is me who will edit, who will write; me, who is still weaving the same web as before. Weaving, weaving, weaving. I am using the wrong type of thread. ” ‘Once upon a time, we were friends,’ she said,” but it does not fit. I choose another yarn, a different color. ” ‘Perhaps once,’ he said.” Does it fit? Will it fit? I close my eyes because I do not know and I open them to find I have stabbed myself with my needle. Now the thread is turning red, red, red, and so is the web. I look over, at other writers, other people. Blue, marigold yellow, orange the color of sunset. Pink, gray, blackish-blue, even. Beautiful. So beautiful. And haunting. But no one has red the color of blood. What is red? What does it mean? I spin and spin and spin and find the yarn turning red and red and red. It had begun to drip onto the needle now, and it is sticking, more red and red and red the color of blood. I close my eyes and weave some more, because maybe, if I don’t look, I can pretend. Maybe, if I don’t look, my web will be as beautiful and haunting as the rest. I feel the needle pierce my fingers, over and over and over, until I am sure the web is dripping with my blood. Snick, snack, snick, snack, snick, snack. The sound of many needles working as one. Scrack, scrack, scrack. The sound of my needle, pulling the blood from my veins. I carry on and on and on because weaving the web is all I know how to do. I try to close my ears and move on. But no. No. Wait. They are stopping. The snicking and snacking are stopping, fading out until there is only a scrack scrack scracking. I cannot stop weaving, cannot stop my fingers from flying, but why have they stopped? I open my eyes. And then I close them again. The light hurts my eyes. The light? The light? Where is it coming from? Maybe this is why they have stopped. I look to my side, to see where they have gone, what they have done. What creature I have been left to face. And what meets my eyes astonishes me. Their webs are pale, shadowed in the strange light. They have stopped weaving: they are staring openmouthed at something. But what? I cannot bear to look at my web, so I look to my right. Staring too, at my other side. So whatever danger faces me must be ahead. I brace myself and look. It is my web. Glowing white, tinged with gold. The center burning red with my blood, bright, bold, striking. I stop weaving and my hands go still, but the light does not go out. It is changing though, shifting. The light is golden, the center red, but it is the white threads wrapping themselves around my web that astonish me. White is the color of no one’s web. It is the color of finality, of paper, of writing so strong it will never be forgotten. I look left. I look right. Their webs are shrinking, mine getting ever-larger. The orange of sunset and blue of the sky are pale, tiny, insignificant. Somehow, from my web of self-doubt, from my pricking of the needle, I have grown to shine brighter than them all. The words that wouldn’t come are now the words they all love. Or Perhaps my words have always come. Perhaps they just came differently than everyone else’s.
Hi guys! I know I’ve been absent from blogging for a while but I’ve had a bit of writer’s block, the flu, travelling, lots of reading, schoolwork, and lots of other stuff that’s been keeping me busy. This April I’ll be doing Camp NaNoWriMo with my wonderful cabin mates Kate, Dunelleth, and Eternity, as well as the April Book Photo Challenge. I might post all the pictures on the blog at the end of the month, but for now I’ll be posting them on Instagram @booksandbarker. 🙂