September Theme: The Stories We Carry
Big Question: Why do certain stories stay with us?
Week 1: The Books That Changed Us
What I wrote below is based on the following creative writing prompt included in Saturday’s Writing Prompts About Books That Changed Us post.
Prompt: The Book That Changes Everything
Write a story about a book that changes someone’s life.
Why did I choose it?
I chose this prompt because I feel like the right books come to us when we truly need them, as if by magic, and I wanted to write something that captured that. I can’t count how many times I’ve read something that resonated with me simply because I read it at the exact time in my life that I needed to read it, or because someone gifted me a book I needed to read.
Did this prompt, or any of the others shared yesterday, bring up any interesting ideas you want to explore, or encourage you to write something this week? Let me know in the chat or comments so we can discuss!
My Response: The Book of Answers
The motions of the day were done and buried, but Henry knew the work of laying the great Arthur Noble to rest was far from over. There were still too many files to sort through, hundreds of documents to sign, dozens more calls to make, at least a handful more family meetings to have, and way too many life-size stones to turn over. Especially where Arthur Noble’s life’s work was concerned.
That, and the fact that Arthur Noble was never one to go quietly into the… wherever he was now. He had always been larger than life– so loud and vivacious, honest to a fault, the center of every party, and as hilarious as he was generous and kind. So unlike any other author who has ever graced the planet, aside from … maybe Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde?
And now that his larger-than-life father was gone, Henry could only imagine what was in store for those of them who had to go on living without him, which was as undesirable as it was impossible. Arthur’s gifts, stories, and energy, had sustained them all for decades, literally and spiritually.
After a long day shrouded in black and mourning, Henry knew he should go up to his childhood bedroom and try to sleep, to bookend the darkness. But it was as if his father’s spirit was determined to live vicariously through him from now on, as Henry’s entire being still felt like a bolt of lightning had struck it. Like light was coursing through his veins. Like he was capable of writing an entire symphony in a manic burst of creativity. Or solving a complex mathematics equation that others found unsolvable. Or even the meaning of life and…
Will it always feel like this? Am I still in shock? he wondered. Is this just what grief feels like? The kind of grief tailor-made for an enigmatic soul like dad’s anyway…
Henry’s mind was becoming unmoored and turbo-charged, wandering from random topics to wild musings then straying from unanswered questions to philosophical ponderings to tangled webs of sentiments and memories. And was apparently in step with his feet.
As if being pulled by an invisible string of fate, Henry found himself at the threshold of Arthur’s study. The only place Henry knew to go for the types of answers he was seeking, which usually only led to more questions.
The midnight light of the moon lit up the far-right corner of the office, beckoning Henry forward, straight toward his favorite bookshelf. The one with all the stories about magical realms and wizards and reluctant heroes who were desperately afraid but managed to conjure enough bravery and rage and integrity together to save their elderly neighbor and a fair maiden, the town prankster, and even a few crooks who stole bread to feed their families. Those books that were full of the stories his father wrote, that continued to move his life forward, to give it meaning.
Henry grazed their spines with his index finger nostalgically, as if absorbing their parabolic lessons into his body along with his father’s words and lifeblood. But stopped short when his finger ran into a spine that was protruding from the rest by about a quarter inch.
What stopped him wasn’t the book’s placement on the shelf, however, but its text, which was glittering in the moonlight, making it stand out among the rest.
The Life of Arthur Noble
To his knowledge, Henry’s father had never even drafted an autobiography, and certainly never had his biography written, let alone had either one bound and published in a way that matched his other work sitting on the shelf.
Henry snatched the book from the shelf so forcefully that it fell to the ground, splaying wide open, exposing its dedication page while simultaneously defying physics.
As Henry crouched to pick it up, he read:
This book is dedicated to my only surviving child, Henry, who is more like me than he will ever know… until he travels through the following pages.
My dear Henry, this book contains the answers to all the questions you will ever have via the stories of my life— those stories borrowed, translated, transformed, and until now, untold. It is for your eyes only, as its text will only be legible to you and no one else.
Please, learn and continue this life of stories, as I did when my mother left them to me. I love you and am with you always, in all the worlds both on and off the page.
I also hope you carry on this tradition when you have a child of your own one day, though I know you struggle with backstories and parables. But don’t we all? As they tell us all we need to know, while simultaneously leaving the hard work of words up to us in the end without an end, or a true beginning …
With a tear at the corner of his eye, Henry turned the page, which was stark blank, blending with the pale glow of the moon cascading over it.
But when the teardrop left Henry’s body and landed in the center of the glowing blank page, ballooning into a medium-sized smudge, the invisible colors on it began to appear and slowly morph into tinier yet darker lines and dots of ink that eventually began forming words, then complete sentences, then paragraphs with a bolded chapter title above them.
The book of his father’s life was writing itself before his very eyes, in bright colors he had never seen before, that he didn’t even know existed in the rainbow.
Henry rubbed his eyes to get a better look at the chapter’s title.
Chapter 1: Setting the Scene
[Write what comes next and share what you come up with in the chat or a comment so we can discuss]
My Reflection and an Invitation
Writing this short piece was cathartic for me, yet bittersweet. And reminded me that finding the right book at the right time isn’t always a ‘happy’ experience, or even comfortable, but still always feels serendipitous and magical.
Writing this piece also inspired a few novel ideas I may pursue one day, after I complete the project I’m currently working on.
How about you? What did this prompt or creative writing piece surface for you?
Leave a comment or join this month’s Drafters Workshop Chat so we can discuss your writing related to Writing Prompts About Books That Changed Us, or anything else you’re currently working on.
Whether you join the chat to share your responses to this week’s prompts, ask questions, workshop an excerpt of something else you’ve written, or simply want to encourage others, we’d love to see you there as we explore the stories we carry and how they impact our lives throughout September.
ICYM August’s Theme, The Creative Life
Go more in depth with The Creative Life Writing Collection
September’s The Stories We Carry Writing Collection is coming soon!
Popular Posts from Week 4: Preparing for What Comes Next
Writing Prompts for What Comes Next in Your Creative Life
Popular Posts from Week 3: The Messy Middle
Writing Prompts for Navigating ‘The Messy Middle’
Reading Notes: The Cemetery of Untold Stories
Popular Posts from Week 2: Creative Habits
Immersive Storytelling Mode and the ArXiv
Reading Notes: The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
The Habits That Help Me and My Creative Life Most
Popular Posts from Week 1: Making Space
A Day Alive in the Lakeside Library
How to Make Space and Time for Your Creative Life
The Creative Life as Play and Work