Sometimes words run interference, and we sense there is a play, but can’t see the players, nor understand the game. The words even seem to wear uniforms of doubtful team spirit or false loyalty, so they become players on the field. They are watched and observed, to determine if they exist to touch down and gain traction, to accomplish a long-standing goal or to come home.
Maybe all of writing is a game, where every script requires a team, and every player needs a part. If the writer is the coach, and no one on the team asks him to play something other than solitaire, then perhaps the words become a jumble of uninspired suits. They line up each day to play the same game with the same predictable ending; an ace leading a family of followers, who never arrive in the same car at the same time, if at all.
Maybe writing isn’t a game, but maybe the writer is a magician, where only the reader has the freedom to play tricks with the words; to envision bunnies pulled from hats, when reading chapters about mice and traps.
Maybe writing is nothing more than the exemplification of what happens in self-guided lifeguard training, when one uses their pen to avoid drowning in the outpouring of their emotions. Every coughed and sputtered up phrase says, “I was scared and this is why I believe I’m alive.”
As words continue bringing calm, waves continue to swell. The writer chokes and crawls back to shore, unable to describe the journey with a pen, because the death known in each struggle eventually evaporates the ink.