A Writer's Real Job?


Writing stories is like opening a locked door and letting the characters come into the room. Live their lives. Tell their story.

Should we invite those left outside a chance to enter? Do all stories exist somewhere just waiting for release? Like the unborn waiting for their turn at light? Are stories sad and lonely or happy and joyous from the beginning? Or is there a chance to change the ending if we, the writers, give them time and space to do so?

An artist must feel the same way molding an emerging image from clay or painting on canvas  that becomes a face, a scene--dark or light.

Is our job as writers to bring life to those whose story will never be told unless we write them? Do words give legs to thoughts, dreams to bodies, or breathe to words not yet spoken? When we write about good, is it released into the world? Would less evil exist if we didn't give it life in words?

Writing brings to life a dimension unreleased in any other way. Should we write with awareness of the forces we release that offer life and meaning?