The Fiction Writer

Once Upon A time there lived a girl named Elizabeth. Occasionally Elizabeth liked to put her thoughts down on paper. She had quite a lovely, normal sort of life, although she inwardly was somewhat of a wildwoman, which also, at times would display outwardly. 😉 Elizabeth spent her time happily going about life with her happy family of three until a happening occurred to her family which changed everything forevermore. She spent many moons of introspection and silence regarding the happening, yet unable to even jot a single thought about it down. One morning Elizabeth awoke with a glittering new pen in her right hand. Beside it was a sheet of wrinkled scrap paper. With the pen she started to write, right there and then on that scrappy paper. Her words, she found, were not those of great poets, but of great, cumbersome and, yes, even airy thoughts and feelings. Most reflected her experience of the happening and her climb from the deep depths of her nightmares to previously thought impossible heights above her dreams.
Elizabeth enjoyed the pen, the paper and the writing of her thoughts and feelings. She found more paper and penned even more. She shared some of her thoughts on paper with trusted friends and to her surprise, they not only enjoyed reading them, they encouraged her to write more.
Elizabeth heard about a local writing group, went there, read some of her stories and was encouraged further.
At this writing group there was a lady named Carol who wrote and read of the most wonderful fictional characters and their escapades. Somehow Carol was capable of knowing many inner lives. She wove these lives into the fabric of her stories, creating plots, scenes and endings to be thoroughly enjoyed by all and envied by one; Elizabeth. Each week Elizabeth would look forward to seeing and hearing from Carol, for Elizabeth wanted very much to learn how to write fiction. Carol’s abilities fascinated her.
Now and again, especially in times of crisis and unrest in the world outside of the group, the flavor of what would seem most of the readings reflected the predominant social mood. There were, of course, differences of opinion. Elizabeth, being one who never cared much for politics, nevertheless, enjoyed the creative process which her peers brought to the table. She did, however hope that the group emphasis would remain heavily on that creative process over on any specific agenda the reading may or may not intend to deliver. Creativity and how to manifest it through writing, was, after all why she was there.
Sadly one day after a particular session of readings heavily laden with what was on the minds of the world at large, Carol had heard enough and stopped attending. Elizabeth was deeply disappointed. She thought, “Oh no, this is terrible. Carol, who is a fabulous creator of fable. Carol who reads to us of romance, strangers in the night, castles, inheritance, murder, mystery, women, mice and men. Carol, who brings us out of our world and into hers; the world that she, herself has created, spent her very precious time writing, editing, and sharing with us. Carol who brings welcome respite from the age of anxiety. Carol, she is leaving? She must know that “this too shall pass.” Like all things in the world, in literature, art and even in fiction, these events will find their place in history. This small writing group will go on and I hope Carol rethinks her decision and returns.”
Elizabeth wished and hoped but she new that Carol must be true to herself. Would Carol return? Would she ever hear Carol’s fabulous fables again? She crossed her fingers and wished and hoped. She may never know. She must wait.
After a short while Carol received word from several of her writing group peers who expressed their dismay at her decision to leave. Each one, in their own way, told her of how they felt about the sharing of their writings, thoughts, feelings and views. They told her of how she’d be missed at the weekly meetings and perhaps more importantly, why she’d be missed. Carol reconsidered. Elizabeth never learned why exactly it was that Carol made the choice that she did. But the following week as she entered the meeting room with the large antique wooden table surrounded by a variety of upholstered armed chairs and folding temporary seats, there among the group of writers was Carol, smiling modestly, written essay in hand, eager to listen, awaiting her turn to deliver her story.
And they all lived happily ever after.

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