The Power to Create

One thing I like about writing is that it gives me the power to make something out of nothing. Like God, really. I can create a person who will become as real as my next-door neighbor. Bria, with her shock of white-gold hair. Sister Agnes, whose eyes don't quite line up and who moves like a round, black cannonball. Lean and rangy Pieter Oomsdorf, in the nursing home with Alzheimers.

Put any of these in a story, and they come alive.

The door handle turned, and Kindle pushed his way in. Bria followed, closing the door quickly.

The small apartment was dim, and still cool from the morning. Mama had opened the windows early, when she left for work. Bria had closed every window when the sun came up. It was almost as good as air conditioning, Mama said. She was right. The air was cool against Bria’s face, damp with sweat after running all the way home from the cathedral.

Bria took a deep breath of the cool, familiar air. Then she stiffened.

"Wait, Kindle." Her voice was barely a whisper, but Kindle stopped, just short of the door to the living room. He looked at her, his blue eyes wide.

"Someone is here." Again the faint whisper. "I smell something."

Among the everyday smells of the apartment—the bleach Mama used to scrub the sink that morning, the cheap detergent smell on the pile of neatly folded laundry on the kitchen table, the comforting smell of toast that somehow lingered after breakfast—there was another smell. It too was familiar. But it did not belong here.

Without breathing, Bria moved toward the living room, her sneakers silent on the floor. The scent of a man’s cologne, mixed with the faint odor of alcohol, let her know what she would see before she actually saw it. The form stretched out on the sofa, the hand hanging down toward the floor, the bottle tipped onto the carpet, a wet stain beneath—these she had seen before, in other places.

"He found us again, Kindle." The words were just breathed.

They turned back to the front door. Neither said a word, but they moved together, quietly, hoping to reach the door before it was too late. Bria was afraid that her heart, beating wildly in her chest, was loud enough to hear.

But Kindle’s foot caught on one of the legs of the kitchen chairs. It hit the table edge with a cracking noise. Bria’s hand groped to find Kindle’s, to pull him with her toward the door. She reached for the door knob.
And then they heard the silken voice: "Ah, Kindle! and Bria, little bird! I’ve been waiting for you."

They turned. Their father was standing in the doorway to the living room.

"Hello, children," he said.

My daughters are gifted artists with the paint brush and chalk; they make things come alive on canvas. My canvas is the blank computer screen. Or a yellow legal pad, if I can find a really good pen.

I feel healthier, more alive, after writing. I think it has something to do with bringing life into the world. This year, I am praying for the discipline to do more.