A friend sits at Starbucks and scripts his novel across the lines of a notebook. Another, before she finds her stories, spreads wet pulp across a screened frame to make paper from scratch. I open my laptop at night and key green letters across the black sky.
Writing has always unfolded this way. Each story starts with a single word. Perhaps it is not the best word, or the only word, but it is the right word because it begins the story.
A second word follows, then a seventh and a seven thousandth. No matter the number, no matter the speed, the writer moves step by step. The first word is the first step, and the rest is finding a way into the forest in order to find a way out.
Words begin our stories, so words are gifts. We don’t worship words, but neither do we use them like matchsticks. We don’t fuck with them. We don’t tuck them in and turn on the television.
No. We dig words up. We brush dirt from their chips and cracks with precise flicks of wrist. We guess at their luster and polish until they shine. We set words on the sill and give them water, watch them turn hour after hour toward the sun.
Then there comes a time we smash a bottle of champagne on the bow of our words and push them into the channels of time. Good luck, we say. Godspeed. And we watch out words steam into the distance.
Yet flowers die and ships run aground. Hikers lose their way. A story sinks in an ocean of zeros and ones, unread by anyone but the writer. Sometimes the forest seems forever.
Perhaps that is why we long for words which last. I wonder if this is the secret of our hunting, of our groping along the walls of journals and notebooks for a light switch: that we’ll live as long as our words do—which is world without end—because both we and our words will be gathered into a greater story.
I’ve heard them whisper back, my words. Now you see a poor reflection, but one day we’ll be waiting, and you’ll see face to face. I don’t always believe them, but if these words are right, then one day I will discover in the pages of that greater story the denouement of every damned tangle and knot that has ever compelled me to put pen to paper.
To start a story, to pray for an end, I move my fingers in the shape of a single word.
David Jacobsen lives in central Oregon with his wife and two sons. He holds a BA in English from Westmont College, an MCS in theology from Regent College, and an MFA in creative writing from Seattle Pacific University. He is a writer, editor, agent, and the author of Rookie Dad: Thoughts on First-Time Fatherhood (Zondervan 2007). David can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
This essay was originally featured in the Bereshit Bara Creativity Series, a blog series about creativity masterminded by SPU MFA alumnus Ross Gale. Read more contributions here, or listen to them on Gale’s podcast.