sunday sermon

chapter from nonfiction book - A Year in This Life

 

sunday sermon

March 2^nd, 2008

8:18 a.m.

Out this morning to let dogs stretch and run the backyard. The day feels like spring. Damp and chilled, but freshness in the air. Crisp and clean. The type of feeling that takes me back to flying kites at Easter. In my parents big yard. Me, my brothers, their wives. And our cousins. Walking around on soft, uneven ground, but having fun. Enjoying our time. That day.

 

Strange how time passes. We disconnect. Move on, with or without those people. The ones that were there for Thanksgiving dinner, unwrapping Christmas gifts, and flying Easter kites. I suppose, if all was the same today, I wouldn't look back fondly. Probably wouldn't be here. At the keys. In our basement. After a hearty breakfast. Morning conversation. Hopeful discussion of our future. Of how all of it will be if we keep at it. Little by little. Doing as much as we can.

 

SB working smart and working hard. Trying with all she's got, to reach kids that don't realize they have the capacity to be reached. Helping them rise up and see that there is more to life than color, texture, form, but if they are willing to understand these elements, each piece, with respect, patience, an open mind, they will better understand the whole.

 

Me, plugging away. Knowing that one day these strong words will fall on the deafest ears and break the silence. So that the sound of letters strung together will be more than music, more than what they hear.   

 

Both of us. Raising the little guy. Aware of the importance of family and home. How steady and rewarding life can be if special care is given to building the truest foundation.   

 

¤

 

Finished another short story. That's two in the span of one month. Feels good to get at the short stuff again. See the ending. The final scene and write toward it so that every word counts. It is a great exercise in discipline, the short story. A writer learns early on that there isn't much room for error. That it's not about filling space, but about creating space with each word that's birthed onto the page. 

 

Working the short story so much is what helped me write the first novel, Pilgrim's Bay.  Because the short form is so demanding—everything counts—I was able to go into the novel knowing that it would indeed be a longer work, but that I didn't need to get flowery with language. I saw no sense is stealing the reader's time with extraneous details. No reason to show off with self-indulgent description, using words that required a college education, or having a dictionary on hand.

 

But don't take it from me. I'm no expert. Just a man in the basement. Writing from the end to the beginning. From the bottom up. A technique—a way of living—that I believe will be invaluable when—at last—one of my stories lands on the right desk, in the right hands, and allows everything else to fall into place.

 

I see it. Feel it. Know it. But as it is with many things, it will take a little more time. Not idle time, but time spent at it. Keepin' at the keepin' on. Daily dedication. Not only to writing, but to the writer's life. Family. Home. Truth. The steadfast universals from which the best experiences have come. 

 

If we strive to understand the elements—each piece—with respect, patience, an open mind, we allow ourselves to be reached. We will rise. Be able to hear again, the great beauty of color, texture, form. And we will know again the importance of the whole. The strength that can only come from the truest foundation.

 

~ K.J.

 

(copyright 2008 by k.j. stevens)