.01 - Hamunaptra

Hamunaptra: (n.) a hidden city in the desert, resting place of the nefarious Imhotep…or baby Britta’s obsession (The Mummy) as a freshman in High School. I wanted nothing more than to be Evie Carnahan and to learn to read Hieroglyphics.

Hamunaptra: (n.) a hidden city in the desert, resting place of the nefarious Imhotep…or baby Britta’s obsession (The Mummy) as a freshman in High School. I wanted nothing more than to be Evie Carnahan and to learn to read Hieroglyphics.

Guys, I did it! Today I wrote one page. ONE WHOLE PAGE! Look at what comes with fresh snowfall. This page arrived after, perhaps, a week of being stumped for how to begin. Even after ten years of developing this story, I’m still grappling with how it should start. When should my couple have their meet-cute? Oh come on, that’s cheesy, it’s been done before. Even worse…discovering that your baby resembles another baby that has taken the silver screen by storm (that’s okay, I’m determined not to let that scare me).

Nevertheless, I’m actually proud of myself. Instead of giving into my hormones, whining about how hard writing is, I’m making the most of my Jesus-year. Allowing my anxiety over not knowing all of the details to overflow into my writing journal.

Even though it feels very wrong.

The inner me is blaring, dumfounded at the absurdity that I’m allowing myself to write regardless of the rigid regime I’ve placed my words under. Scared of failure…and weird kind connoisseur of the art of falling flat on my face, instead of focusing all of that power on love for storytelling.

This page was gut-wrenching, but after awhile, I actually started to rest my shoulders and enjoy it. I even managed to somehow resurrect Hamunaptra from my teenage memories out of nowhere. My impatience wants me to hate the process, this getting down the bones. The thought of writing a million words that may not actually make the whole drives me crazy. But you can’t have the body without the bones. Writing is a kind of pilgrimage you carry with you. You give yourself as wholly to it beneath God as possible…until it becomes a sixth sense. Not something special you do on occasion. It is one of your love languages. Tears, ‘failures’, victories, forks in the road. It’s simply the day in the life of a writer.

Congratulations, you and your one page. You’re a writer.

How does it feel?

Good? Great…now chill out and knit something.