The write attitude

Scribbler lived on hope. He wanted to be a writer and believed he would make it. But, he did not know the write law: Writers are born, not made. He had no clarity of thought, lucid language or engaging style. In his hands, sentences turned into labyrinths constructed by an untrained mind, trapping the reader.

Scribbler lived on hope. He wanted to be a writer and believed he would make it. But, he did not know the write law: Writers are born, not made.

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He had no clarity of thought, lucid language or engaging style. In his hands, sentences turned into labyrinths constructed by an untrained mind, trapping the reader.

But, he lived long and so did his hope. In the pen-and-paper age, he spent hours staring at white sheets. The few words he scribbled were soon lost to second thoughts and crossed out of existence. In the computer age, his fingers refused to ally with the keyboard. And when the two made peace, his sub-Saharan mind revealed no oases of words.

He wondered who named him Scribbler when he was not good enough to even play scrabble. He hurt, he wept, but the dream never left him.

“No more of this word business,” he swore to himself when darkness enveloped the earth and the birds nested for the night.

“I am fit only for the broom,” he mused. Days turned into weeks, weeks to months and years. Scribbler subsisted below the thought poverty line. As the cows came home one autumn dusk, he heard a soft voice.

“Go to the Word Master, he will show you the write way.”

Leaving his comfort zone for good, Scribbler ventured out in search of the Word Master. From cliff to coast, he scanned every face. But the search was fruitless. Tired, he seated himself below a tree.

“Maybe my time will never come. I will never have the write attitude. I will search no more.” Sleep transported him to a world where there were no winners or losers. All strove for joy and no one looked at the bottomline.

“Oh! where is such a world of bliss?” he wept in the dream. No longer soft, the voice spoke again.

“In the caverns of the heart, dwell I. My fame is nameless, my life is deathless, my power limitless. I am the Word Master. Inscribe as I dictate. Think not of right or wrong, wanted or unwanted. Follow me. Banish fear. I am your only hope. Trade the write desire for the right desire.”

Scribbler awoke with a start. The birds chirped overhead. A golden dawn welcomed him. No burden of subject or object weighed him down. Dusting the leaves off his cloak, he resolved to be happy to let the words spring forth from his heart at the right time. No expectations, no lamentation, only the elation of consciousness covered his self. Truly, he had come home.