A Writer Needs an Ego

I stood at the edge of my desk staring at the gleaming white bones laid upon it.  I took another look at the edge of the empty box on the floor, and read words that told me it had contained one complete skeleton.

My god, I thought, maybe I should have studied Anatomy in college, instead of Art History.  Art History had taught me many things, like the origin of key nuances that color our culture.  It had not taught me how to create art, history, or people.

The papers, mostly blank, sat on the table next to the bones.  Pencil outlines of figures, towns and worlds seemed to stare up at me from the pages, expectant.  As if they wanted to know who they were, where they had been, and what was going to happen next.

I sat down in the chair and I fumbled with the hard white bones.

I can do this, I told myself, others have done this.

Does not God do this a million times a day?  He plops people upon the Earth complete.  He hides within each person a story complete and ready to unfold.

If God can do this, certainly I can do it  –

If I am a writer.

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