On this Christmas morning, I sit alone next to the slumbering iron heat of the wood stove and beneath the towering green sparkle of our Christmas tree and worry that becoming a writer has ruined me.
In the years that have flowed beneath similar trees, a book would be in my hands, the pages turning rapidly as I became lost in the new smell, and words, of another adventure, another mystery… or something darker. All my family and friends knew that a book was the gift certain to bring real pleasure to my Christmas morning.
Now the unfamiliar position I am in this morning is two-fold. For the first time, I am one of the first to creep out of bed to see the unwrapped joy lying about the foot of the tree. This is a change that feels right. I am of an age that sitting quietly and waiting for the world to awaken gives me comfort.
The second difference to this Christmas is not comforting at all. A book is in my lap and the pages are turning; that is how life should be. The words on the page weave their magic and attempt to draw me in.
But I find myself resisting; the new writer in me either looking for flaws — or the secret to this author’s particular brand of wizardry. I’m enjoying the book, but I am not pulled into another world.
Then I am drawn to the keyboard with a need to record these thoughts, all the while jealous of the reader sitting alone under the tree, lost in some wondrous story… the reader I was in years gone by.