An acquaintance of mine, Isla Morley, is a massively talented storyteller who can weave together words in such a beautiful and powerful way. She published two books, the first of which I admit, I haven’t been able to finish reading yet. Some stories must be allowed the right time and place to gently sink into.
But what I found curious is how she immersed herself into writing a heartbreaking fictional story similar to her life in character and location. How can someone go into a place that sends chills down the spine of every mother? And stay there, and write. Why go there at all? There are million things one could choose to write about, why this? It felt to me like a spell casting of sorts, a vision boarding of tragedy. As humans, we often hide away our fears, refusing to think or speak about them unless we’re forced to. In this case, she chose the opposite.
I thought about this a lot and finally asked her, “How did you write this story? How could you write about the death of a young girl, with such close parallels to your own daughter? Why would you choose to write something so terrifying to even think about?” I was struck by her response.
“I didn’t choose the story. It came to me.”
I always thought creating something was a process of hammering away while struggling to pull something into existence from nothing. This idea that a story could show up and ask to be written was foreign and yet intriguing to me. For her, it began as a powerful visitation of a reoccurring character that she could no longer ignore. As if opening the front door to welcome in a visitor for tea, she welcomed the character in, and ultimately, the story that was asking to be written. She created the space and allowed the story to unfold through her. It went on to receive praise and accolades, and eventually paved the way for her second book.
I don’t believe creativity is always waiting on the doorstep calling your name, but I do realize there are many visitors that have knocked on my front door that I’ve ignored. I secretly peek through the windows while pretending I’m not home. Some linger for a while, and others decide to leave and knock on someone else’s door.
I’ve decided to begin answering the door for what’s showing up (with discernment, of course). And I’m finding all sorts of fun discoveries sitting on my front porch, waiting to be welcomed inside, asking to be seen, heard, played with, cultivated, and brought into the world.
