Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “ A good intention clothes itself with power.”
In order to write a poem, a short story, or a novel the beginning is set by the intention. Writer's are inevitably asked this question, “What prompted you to write this book?”
J.K Rowling, riding a train and looking out the window, had this thought: What if there was a wizard school? That one idea evolved into an empire. It made her a fortune and touched the lives of an entire generation.
She said that in her mind, she thought that the trick would be in getting it published, but after that it would be really big. She set her intention from that minute forward. Her thoughts came tumbling out, and she had nothing with which to write. As soon as she could get pen to paper though, her intention was very clear. She would write a book about a wizard school. She wrote as if on fire. An agent picked it right up, but eleven publishers turned it down. She did not despair because she focused on her intent. The rest is history.
The Irish have a saying about this topic. Throw your cap over the wall. You'll have no choice but to go after it. The race to the moon, described in these terms, was achieved in record time.
Is it enough? Yes, if the focus is constant. A writer is essentially creating something out of nothing. It feels, at times in the dark nights of despair, that the nothing wants its nothingness back. Anything worth doing, is worth doing well.
“There are so many more important things you could do with your time.” I have heard this more than once from very well meaning friends. It was most likely my fault for complaining, for whining about the nothing nipping at my heels. I learned it is a better idea to vent to other artists and writers who never, not in their wildest dreams, would ever encourage any work to go back to a blank page. Creating for the sake of creating may not seem that noble, yet if that was the intent, there is no turning back.
Books have shaped my life; they have given meaning to my very existence. Sharing our stories, telling others about the beauty of North Idaho, about the people who came before us, unearthing great moments in history and bringing them to life, that has meaning.
My father had a book of poems reprinted that were written by his grandfather. When he gave me that book, I had a glimpse of another light, one that had fallen away in the busy post-war years. I knew the heart of a man I had not had the privilege to know except through his poems.
He helped set my path. I would not dare to presume I could do the same, but it has always been my intent. I want to share what I have gleaned with someone who will never meet me or see me, but will know something of me, nevertheless.
That is why I am given to writing.