To Wish Upon an Author

I sometimes wish I had the elegance of Shakespeare, or the logic of C.S. Lewis, or the brains of Tolkien, to express the thoughts that eternally crowd the hallways of my mind.

To be able to sit down and just let it all flow from the dungeons of my brain to the tips of my fingers.

To be able to communicate my message, with pleasant, and yet, convincing words.

But alas, I do not have much of either brains or good logic, and elegance is so far from me that some people might think me a, a, a…see what I mean?

I try to explain my story, or my thought, and it comes upon my readers as a herd of charging elephants comes upon an onlooker…leaving them rather startled and shaken.

My earnest words start in my mind as sharp and logical and very convincing, but when they come out, it hits the reader’s mind like a hammer hits a wooden bell.

Do I try to hard? Is what I have to say even worth bothering about?

Do I inspire too much to be great? Should I stick to reading books, and only dream about fulfilling my dreams?

These are the questions that walk the hallways of my mind, and sit in the lobbies of my head. They meet the vigorous thoughts of my imagination and rudely discourage them.

They tell them to sit down, and the thoughts sometimes listen, and grow fat and weary in the waiting room of my brain, waiting to be called in, so that they can be let out.

To have the heart of David, the wisdom of Solomon, and the meekness of Moses; to have the elegance of Shakespeare, the logic of Lewis, and the brains of Tolkien.