On Writing Isn’t it strange that one of the most intimate crafts, the ability most capable of connecting human minds, hearts and souls, the gift with the most mystical of properties—isn’t it strange that this talent is perfected in solicitude and loneliness? For when you go deepest into yourself, like diving into a river in search of polished stones, it is then that that words come easily. But you are pulled away by well-meaning people who insist that you learn how to live in “the real world,” without understanding that the world created in your words cuts deeper and truer, coming closer to the ‘reality’ our spirits long for. You may learn a little about a person by conversing about the weather or excess homework, but writing springs from the heart, even the abnormalities, like the depressing poem from the optimist or the western saga from a manga fan. Or perhaps the writing is from the soul, like a longing for wings or the hunger to see your Savior’s face. If parents look upon your work, it is with the sincere yet obligatory praise of adults to strange creations of children. They may laugh at the humorous piece or frown at the dark tales, wondering if it reveals darkness within. But the pen sometimes seizes control from the brain, and writes what it will regardless of the mind. Just because my character’s suicidal doesn’t mean I am. If you try to judge a man, woman, or teen by the company they keep, the rules may mislead among fictional company. If I read The Lord of the Rings, do I see myself as a naïve hobbit, a blinded Gondorian, or a lust-filled schizophrenic?   If I read Narnia, am I a winter-bound witch or a traitor to kin? If my story has an insane mother and a depressed daughter, am I either of them? But we are companions who walk the same road as I try to guide them to their eucastrophie, their happy ending, through the shadows of looming death. They may express concern over all the time we spend perusing writing forums, but if all books become e-books eventually, is it not the same in the end? A story is a story, and though I prefer ones held in my hands, some of the best stories I have read come from those forums, mines of rough gems that cannot yet afford to placed into jewelry. Sometimes I think the Internet is the writer’s best friend. If I lived twenty, even ten, years ago, my writing audience would be limited to parents or pen pals, like a solitary rose in an empty, nearly deserted garden. But the web allows my rose to bloom in the company of others, to compare and contrast, to learn when to prune and when to fertilize. It also inspires me to write more, to plant other flowers, like my NaNoWriMo novels, longer than any other works of mine. And with these gardens, I can experience the joy—once limited to published authors—of connecting with others souly on the basis of stories. I know Tolkiena better through her poems—I understand Kyleigh better through her Victorious trilogy—then I know some of my classmates after four years of lunch and classes. In addition, there is the peculiar institution of critique to consider as well. Some authors cradle their writings like newborns, turning into tigers at the slightest hint of disapproval. But the best authors are those who release the flowers from their hands, who hand the rough gems to others. “Here,” they—we—say. “Polish these jewels for me. Show me their rough spots; praise the parts that catch the light. Tell me how to display them to their best advantage.” And the best readers reply, “This phrase is verbose…this section confusing…but your characters are true and your story moved my heart.” Thank you to all who read and polish my gems, holding them up to the Light of Truth and Discretion. Thank you to those who have encouraged me to keep writing. J.R.R. Tolkien once wrote "The unpayable debt that I owe to [C.S. Lewis] was not 'influence' as it is ordinarily understood, but sheer encouragement. He was for long my only audience. Only from him did I ever get the idea that my 'stuff' could be more than a private hobby." Both Lewis and Tolkien were members of a writing group known as The Inklings. In one of his letters, Tolkien wrote, “It is an Inkling's duty to be bored willingly. It is his privilege to be a borer on occasion.” Thank you, my Inklings.