What I Know

A couple of weeks ago a friend laid four spiral bound books in front of me as a donation for a Halloween raffle. My eyes lit up when I saw that they were personal manuscripts he has written every year from 2002 to 2005. All I could think is he has done what I only wish I could do.

I talked to him later about how I always wanted to write.

“What have you written?” his eyes were so piercing, demanding a truthful answer.

“Nothing.” I felt so humbled to even start a conversation with a man of action. He wasn’t going to entertain any excuses so I dare not give him any.

“Write what you know. Write about yourself.” Once again those eyes were expecting a debate. One I wanted to fuel, mind you. I wanted to tell him why it was so hard to start and how I sat for hours and could not get it on paper. I was strangled by my own fear of rejection that I could never let my stories see the light of day.

“If it is hard to do, then it’s not you. You come out easy. Someone else comes out hard.”

“Right,” I acknowledged him for the simple fact that he has been where I have been.
He knew my objections spinning in my head. He knew, but he did it anyway. He wrote the words down that I haven’t. He spent the time to discover himself and allow the fear to remain but not kill. Not kill his dream but nourish it.

He walked away with no more words, just the ones he left. They have been festering in my soul for a couple of weeks until I could write what I know.

And today I did.