The man sat in a dim candle lit room.
He was an aged farmer and was thinking very deeply about his mortality and his secret life as a writer of classical rhetoric.
As the candles shadow danced across the walls of the small hut and sparkles of star burst in the man’s hazel eyes, he picked up the pen he had carved from a piece of ivory and chewed on the end of it….thinking…..
The papyrus on the small table did not speak to him tonight as it had so many times before. Yes…it was true that he was a poet at heart, a songwriter as well in his younger days…when he had been care-free and a traveler to distant lands, a conqueror for the day each time he set foot onto an alien shore.
The farmer writer smiled at these memories.
It seemed so long ago now.
But as with any writer, his desire was to create a work of literature that was new, original….world changing.
A work so revolutionary and introspective that people would kill for its message, nations would herald its greatness, praising it as a truly inspired masterpiece.
He had no idea what to write about.
All the subjects he was familiar with he felt he had exhausted and that they, and he most probably, had become redundant and boring.
He continued to chew on the pen, distractedly looking around the small cell-like room, trying to capture any inspiration floating in with the small tufts of breeze burgling thru his one and only open window.
He stood up and walked to the window, the pen jammed into the corner of his mouth. The breeze was still chilly enough this morning to cause his eyes to water slightly. He closed his eyes, feeling the soothing air across his face….thru his hair.
He could smell the fields of corn and potatoes. He could hear the soft lowing of cattle just over the hill to the west.
The moon was fading as the pink, golden threads of the sun began to dart back and forth between the fruit trees he himself had planted so long ago.
The sleepy stirrings of his wife made him turn from the window.
She had rolled over to his side of their bed, her small hand across her face, one leg tossed from under the wool skin hung off the edge of the bed….her toes flexing and stretching.
She yawned; a little poot came from under the blanket.
“Is thee restless old man?” she whispered, her eyes still closed, her hand over her lips to stifle another yawn.
“Nay” he said quietly.
“Come from the window and get back into bed then” she said, pulling her leg back under the cover and tugging the wool tight up under her chin.
“In a while” he said. He leaned down and kissed the part of her head that was not covered by the blanket.
Her hand snaked out from under the wool and touched his face, lingering for a second then disappearing back under the cover.
Another small poot….then a giggle came from under the blankets.
The writer looked at his wife for another minute, remembering every single minute he had been in love with her……”IN” love with her……Almost 60 years now, and he could recall every single second of it.
He sat down at the little table again, the pen was in his fingers, poised above the paper.
A drop of ink pittled onto the page….
He wrote thru the drop and began….
“It was a dark and stormy night…”
He looked at the words then scratched them out.
He wrote “Once upon a time…”
He frowned….then scratched these out.
He put the pen back into his mouth to chew, thinking.
Then, it came to him.
With ink stained lips and a steady hand he wrote:
“In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters”.
He put the pen down and looked at the words.
Where had that come from?
Who was this…“God?”
“I’m going to have to do some character development with this” the old writer thought.
The man looked out the window again, then back to the paper before him, re-reading the lines he had written that seemed to fall onto the paper from the cool morning breeze.
“Where does inspiration come from?” he thought.
It never ceased to amaze him where and how the ideas came to his heart and mind.
He heard his wife tussling with the wool blanket behind him again. She was talking in her sleep about….apples or something.
“Will this be a work of fiction, non-fiction or just a combination of thoughts, poems and parables?” he whispered to himself.
He had to have an idea where to go with it, he knew this.
Basic rules of writing “Have an outline….have a message”
“Let the reader decide….” He thought.
The inspiration continued to fall from the dawning sky as he began to write….
“This will have everything” he thought excitedly.
Love, betrayal, hope, murder, death, romance, loyalty, faith, loss of faith, ruin, redemption, resurrection, life….everything!
“…..everything” his sleepy wife snorted from her dreams…
“Yes, old woman” The man said, turning to look at her sleeping face.
All he saw were her toes….
“Everything I can think of….”
“That’s nice…” she whispered from under the blankets “Don’t forget to bring in the eggs” she snored.
He got up like the good husband he was, and put on his cloak.
He picked up the egg basket, then set it back down.
He stepped back to the table and made a quick small note on the paper to remember where he had left off:
“For Eve…my wife.”