Writing The End

By Cheryl Semick

Starting is easy. A thought, an idea, a dream. Our hearts toy with desires, acting out what it is we want to be, or want to have. We picture ourselves walking down the aisle to say “I do” or shaking a hand to receive a diploma - cutting the ribbon on opening day of a new business, or posing for cameras.

The exhilaration of such thoughts swarm through our brains like a swelling bee hive, endless possibilities busily darting in every direction, swooping us up into a state of euphoria. Tragically, we sometimes start what we cannot finish and find ourselves pregnant with a life we are not ready to feed and raise.

Writing has been this way for me. A word will wink at me, or a phrase will whisper into my ear and I, the willing prisoner, stick my hands in the air and say, Ok! I give up! without as much as a struggle. I have absolutely no resistance, yet I passionately wrestle with the temptation to succumb to yet another story. Without effort I am taken into its world and held captive until it impregnates my heart with a microscopic soul - a tale that begs to be told.

Incubating in my mind, the concept feeds off my energy. I’m tense with fears - what will it look like in print? I picture myself in a bookstore reaching for my offspring, bound and stamped with my name - flipping through the leaves of the work of my days. I feel its cover in my fingertips squeezing it and stroking its letters in unbelief, thinking, did I give birth to this beautiful child?

I imagine myself a proud parent, hoping everyone in the whole world will think my child is the most beautiful and as soon as the thought blasts me to the highest peak I am dashed against the sharp reality that there are millions of beautiful children in the world and mine is only one.

I slam my thoughts shut. I cannot do this! I have miscarried every story I’ve ever conceived! What makes me think I can carry this one full term?

I’m angry and ignore the life inside, hoping it will starve to death. I’ve become comfortable with writing in this monthly column and jotting down a poem here and there. I dabble in writing contests and write in journals - when I cannot escape the unavoidable urge to pour out the paragraphs that build up in my brain - but writing the end of a book, now that’s downright frightening!

Is it the work I resist? Give me the baby all bathed and wrapped in soft cuddly blankets, quietly sleeping in my arms and everyone around us saying, “What a beautiful baby!” Yes! That’s what I want! To drive to the bookstore, walk to the shelf and just pull my book off and see it complete, bound forever in its own identity. Forget the labor!

Truly, I don’t mind the work. So what paralyzes me? Is it the fear of the end? What then? What will I do when my child is grown and gone? How will I handle knowing I’m sending it off into the world wrapped in a box only to arrive at some publishing house where it may be shelved or thrown away, unread, unopened? How could I cope with the thrill and pain of watching it be read but then hearing about all its flaws and reasons why it’s not good enough to print - to be cut down, edited, critiqued and rejected by strangers? My precious child, of whom I labored day and night to create! I’d rather not give birth to you than to send you into a world so cruel and watch your life be so treated.

But, like any pregnancy, the child must be born. I must press on, and so I have thrown myself into the path of a writer’s conference. Yep, I’m spending my much longed for week’s vacation in the company of editors, publishers and authors this month and I’m scared to death! The time has come for me to write the end - everything within me and all who are watching me become an author are screaming, “PUSH!”

Some have said our lives are a story, a book to be read. I must admit the first few chapters of my life were a mystery. The next few became a horror, and just when all was dark and filled with a hopeless ending, I met the hero, Jesus, who I asked to save me from a tragic end. He did. The Bible says in Hebrews chapter 12 verse 2, that Jesus is the Author and Finisher of our faith. Let Him write the end of your story too.

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