A Writer's Life for Me

   In the movie "Pirates of the Caribbean," pirate captain Jack Sparrow duels it out with dashing Will Turner. Suddenly robbed of his sword and with his back against the wall, Sparrow unsheathes a hidden pistol and points it at Will, effectively winning the round. Gun beats sword" in the age-old game of rock, paper, scissors.

 
   "You cheated!" Will cries in surprise.

 
   Sparrow shrugs and says, "Pirate."

 
   Of course.

 
   Take two: my imagination. Same scene, only it's me instead of Sparrow with my back against the wall, facing a crowd of friends and family all brandishing rolled-up manuscripts in their hands. They step closer and cry as one: "You wrote about me! How could you?"

 
   I shrug. "Writer."

 
   Of course. 

A bountiful life

 
   It's true. As writers, we often pillage our material from the bountiful lives of our friends, our families-even strangers on the street who entertain us during people-watching parades. Office dramas, freeway battles, long phone calls from loved ones in the midst of a trial or triumph - all show up at the end of my pen.

   My subjects rarely know that as I cherish the interaction, I am keeping track, laying the foundation for a new story or adding spice to a current one.

 
   In their lives-in my life-I find my stories, the very fabric of credibility and truth that is so important to weave into fiction, non-fiction or even science fiction and fantasy. Even children's literature is best embellished with real-life lessons: the celebrated happy endings, the sad times that happen too soon, the glorious tales of wonder and redemption that every wide-eyed child can tell to his Sunday school circle of friends.

 
   Reality is just too good to resist. Like pirates we steal the gems and stow them away for safekeeping and preservation on the page. We yearn for that gut-wrenching, heart-pounding, soul-inspiring truth to keep our craft credible, to stay true to the reflections we hope to capture of God's intricate design.

Friends, Family, and Other Precious Jewels

 
   But do we tell those who inspire us? Do we pause them in mid-sentence and say, "Hold on, my pen just ran out of ink?" Aye, therein lies the danger. Like artwork that conveys an image so life-like it fairly jumps off the page, so, too, must our writing mirror the living landscapes we see. And we won't always see the truth when others sense we love to write them down. We're no longer a safe element within their midst, no longer trusted to know their secrets, especially if you pen personal essays like I do, the very fabric of my stories inexorably weaved into the experiences I have, the people I see, in a day.

  
   Sometimes I wonder if there's any way to calm their fears, assure them it's all for the good-that I'll portray them in their Sunday best-but I know that's just wishful thinking, and writing is about capturing the truth.

 
   Of course, not everyone complains. My husband, a magician by trade and an extrovert by nature, would love to be mentioned in any true - or fantasy -- tale I weave up. Girlfriends giggle at their latest antics and say, "Now, there's a story for you." Even Jill, my hairdresser, was eager to get in on the game. Seeing me take copious notes as my gooped-up hair gelled under the dryer, she would generously offer herself up to my writer's imagination.

   
   It's a bond based on trust. My friends and family know they inspire me beyond all else. They know some of my characters look like they do, talk like they do, and generally resemble the people who walk this life with me. They know I am blessed and I carry those blessings into my writing.

Going for the gold

 
   So we listen; we learn, we take furtive notes on backs of napkins, watching the scene unfold before us on God's stage of infinite beauty and design. Hear that? It's a song. See that? It's a kiss-quick, capture it on the page. Feel that? It's our hearts, beating in unison to the glorious stories that are acted out before us every day.

 
   I'm driving down Hollywood boulevard. It's raining, it's pouring. Hey, look. There's Spider-Man outside Mann's Theatre. He runs for cover from the storm. Should a superhero do that? I think not. I jot down the scene; it's truth-stranger-than-fiction. It's what we see, what we hear, what we breathe.

 
   We are writers, we are pirates and the world is rich with hidden treasure.