by Maureen Sevilla (copyright 2007)
"Where do you want to go?" he asked.
"What would you like to see?
Isn't there something you've wanted to do?
Or someone you've wanted to be?"
He wrote down impressions of far away places
Of wonder and sadness and sin
He researched his thoughts for just the right word
To express where he'd already been.
He scoured the pages for just the right spot.
For just what he thought I'd need.
Then he turned to me and further impressed
"... to open your inner seed?"
What's your passion? Can you smell it? Touch it? Feel it? Hear it? See it? Sense it? Does it make your heart race or your mind contemplate? Is it what you would rather be doing than anything else?
Mine is writing. There was a time when I'd have rather be doing other things, and then writing entered my life. When I'm not writing, I'm thinking about writing, dreaming or writing, wishing I could be writing. Like many authors, I believe my need to write was an offshoot of reading and discovering my mind wandering to other story options...ones I hadn't read but perhaps would have enjoyed. Adventures or characters I wanted to explore were a story-line away within my own mind. I could go anywhere and do anything. I could change the past or finish it. In writing, I discovered endless stories--worlds that don't exist, futures that haven't been imagined, and pasts I wanted to explore. I create characters I believe are interesting and put them in situations to discover what they will do. Writing is like a huge science experiment implemented with words.
Questions create ideas...ideas create potential books. The couple in the picture of the museum above have a story. What is it? Whittling down all the various ideas to the one story I want to tell is the hardest part of coming up with a plot. Weeding through the possibilities and coming up with the one that's slightly different from anything I've read before is a constant challenge. What if the passion flower above is really a life form with the ability to think and feel? What if we can only see it as we do because it lives its life at a different pace? Could it merely be a facade for the actual reality of a world we can't see?
At a time when I needed escape, reading was my answer. Then later, writing became my pleasure.