Into the Fire

Sometimes a story writes itself. It lingers in the mind of the author, distilling. Pushing itself to the front of thoughts, it demands a time to be told. This is either a long process or a quickened one. The writer chooses his method of operation – is he an outliner, a spontaneous combustion type, or a combo of the two styles? Over time, some of those choices change or combine themselves depending on the complexity of the story.

Sometimes an ending is the impetus for the story. Sometimes a character forms and reveals the plot. Sometimes a location sparks awareness and intrigue. Sometimes a timeframe calls "Remember me." The story originates in whispers or shouts, climbs around the mind of the author, demands exposure, and declares the plan.

Sometimes the perceived notion of the story takes a turn, dips, dives, and surprises the writer forming the words. It feels supernatural. Like it's writing itself.

Sometimes the author is only the vehicle, taken captive by the story.

Father, I know apart from you, I can do nothing. I thank you for every story idea, every word, every turn, every direction of every story I've ever written. The flaws are mine, the beauty and creativity is all yours. As always, thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.