Unwritten

Below is a piece from my next book, expected to be published this fall.  It's fitting to let you peek at it now.  The book is divided into seasons.  This piece fits well in the autumn section, I think.  What do you think?

Enjoy!

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Thinking about unwritten books, unspoken words, unthought emotions.  They sit there, beneath the surface waiting for the right pen to come along and begin the sentence.  Or maybe it’s not even the pen, but the words that are unavailable.  These ideas that need something to give them life.  These emotions that need someone to give them purpose.  They sit there buried under reality and wish for someone to dig a little deeper, ask another question, see a little more clearly.

Instead.  They stay unwritten, unspoken, unthought.

But felt.  Clearly. 

I can’t help but wonder, where is God?  Has He left me after all this time? 

Now when my world is falling apart?  My paradigms are shifting?  My words are pushed back at me?

I keep wishing that the words under my skin would find some way to be released.  That they would find someone to hear them.  That someone would care enough to remove the wall, brick by brick, and allow the words to breathe.

I’m afraid of failure.  I’m afraid that if I open myself up, I’ll only find myself vulnerable and hurt.  I’m afraid that if I try to speak, I’ll not find an unresponsive listener, but I’ll find ridicule.  And so I swallow the words and put the pen away and close the book.

I’d rather keep them to myself than risk their exposure to taunting. 

But that Voice deep inside says to be open, to share these words, to be an open book.

I pray aloud, “Can you tell me, please, if anyone wants to hear, then?  Can you tell me, please, if I’m just to carry all of this emotion alone for all my life?  Would the words be shushed if they were shared?”

See?  That’s why I close the book, put the pen away and swallow the words.

But the words push themselves to the surface over and again.  Unwilling to remain unseen. 

If only I knew someone would listen.  I would share my words.  I would describe the cacophony of sound I see and sing the colors that dance around me.  I would write in great detail and wondrous prose the events and times and lives that shape my world.  I would leave a legacy.  A written record.  A history. 

But no one really seems to want to hear. 

Or perhaps, I am not looking far enough or deep enough or soft enough.

From a distance, I hear again, the Voice of my Lord, “Be still and know.  Give and it shall be given. “  And peace fills the void and silence is stilled.

Middle Ground

I should be working on my Philosophy test, but the words and meanings are all pushed behind the idea of The Book. It sits there on my shoulder waiting to be finished.

It’s almost there now. I have one more editor to meet with. One more set of ideas to sift through. One more session of page creating, picture editing, getting it all together.

Almost there.

And now I’m more terrified than before.

Sitting here, on the middle of the bridge, too far down to turn back, not quite in the safety zone, is the worst part of bridge crossing. I remember the first time I walked across the Poetry Bridge in Minneapolis. The traffic raced beneath me. Lives scurrying from point A to point B with no thought of me and my drama. Didn’t anyone care that I was so alone? Didn’t anyone know how little value I placed on myself?

I had the option at that moment to make them remember me. To become a life they would never forget. To stop their rushing and force their attention to me. I didn’t, but the thought occurred to me. By not finishing the crossing of that bridge I would have made an impression on them. A horrible one, to be sure, but I would have become a part of their lives. They would see me then.

Today I stand at this metaphorical bridge and find a different scene. If I don’t cross this bridge, if I go backward, if I never finish The Book I will cease to make an impression, no one will remember me, I will be the focus of no one. I could be literarily invisible.

There is a great deal of comfort in that anonymity. For one thing, there is no risk of painful backlash if I simply slide off the grid here. I could take down the website. Stop answering e-mails and phone calls and before long everyone would forget my ramblings and go about their business without me just like they did a year ago before I started publicly writing. There will be no criticism of my expressions, no doubt about my sentence structure, no dislike of my endless strings of thoughts. No exposure of my doubts, fears, failures, inadequacies.

Like the voices which pulled me across the Poetry Bridge all those months ago, something compels me forward. I am not sure why my writing is so important, but I feel it is. Not in an egotistical “I have something to say!” way, but in a “I have lived this, am better for it, and you can make it, too” way.

Had my routine not been interrupted a couple of weeks ago, The Book would already be out there. You would know what I’m afraid of. Although many pieces have been strewn about, only a couple of people have read the whole thing. Their reception pushes me to the other side.

I think, by next week-end, while you are scurrying about your lives hither and yon without thought of me, a momentous event will occur. I will hit the button that says “send” and off will go the first edition, ready for publication, real library-ready book containing my words.

I’m not sure if angels will sing or heaven will notice, but I know a little lady with brown eyes, a tall Swedish man, and a biker in a leather who will be looking from beyond smiling. Whatever value they saw in my little life at the beginning, I give this book back to them in appreciation.

God has been very good to me.

If you haven’t yet, and care to, please visit the website: krisanewman.webs.com. The snatches of prose mentioned above are posted there. Although I’ll have links here for purchase, the website has a little more information.

Thanks for walking this bridge with me. It’s nice to not be alone.