“Creative Non-Fiction fills a niche that will never be filled by either fiction or traditional nonfiction…about the things that happen to people in real time and the ways those things change us a day or a decade later.”
-Gerald N. Callahan
The Silent Power of the Written Word
Consumed in place of meals, invested in more than a bank and touched more than my smelly little dog, (but not more than my coffee cup) I often disappear for a few moments of quiet resolve under the cover of fatigue. The literary elements lure me in, bidding I enter another world. Their world of unique splendor and culture combined into a delicious recipe of literature.
I am intrigued beyond the perimeters of this limited mind into a dimension of mysterious and symbolic short stories, heart breaking memoirs, creative fiction, and purposeful spiritual insight, in a rich, captivating blend of words and ideas. Like a well woven tapestry or an arresting painting, the colors like the words, create a breathtaking image that appears, giving it meaning, a voice and influence. It becomes divine and glorious, bursting with life and truth and anguish and desire, put together in sentences, phrases, paragraphs and striking verses. They soar off the pages into my heart, making their way straight to the pits of my innermost being, words.
Sometimes I stop, read a sentence a second and third time, close my eyes and let it seep in watering the dry parts of my soul hoping those ideas will stick to the walls of my writers palette to be called upon for later use or perhaps preserved within my bank of insight, only to be withdrawn to teach a lesson or give some timely advice. As I gathered and stacked, I was rather surprised to see all these books together in one space. It was like heaven, seeing everyone you know and love surrounding you, but they don’t necessarily know each other, nor did you know any of them at the same time, parents and college friends, teachers and distant cousins, husbands and old boyfriends in one big assembly.
Books I read ten years ago looked vastly different from what I am reading today, they are like little pieces of a mosaic of me. A friend told me once, “It’s the literature you read that makes you who you are.” That’s good because the literature is improving!”
I affixed an invisible badge of confidence and satisfaction over my heart, as I completed my modest escapade of finding all the books I had read cover to cover that lay hidden and collecting dust on book shelves around my house. Surely what this did not accomplish was a quenched desire, what I thought, was this, “oh I have a lot of work to do”
seeing all those unread, untouched, unconsumed and un-invested in books, my thirst increased, and surely I began to plan my next disappearing act.