I'm Waiting to be Born


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Iím Waiting to be Born


Well you may ask, what I mean. The answer is that Iím standing in a long line of fiction characters whose tale hasnít been told yet. Their stories havenít come to light or else the author chosen to tell their tale hasnít recognized the task given to them.

To be born, we must get into the mind of a writer first and that is not always easy. There seems to be a lot of us trying to get in at the same time and it creates a traffic jam of sorts. Legs and arms flailing as we try shoving our way forward and shouting at the author, ďHere I am. Hear me. Tell my story.Ē

Some of us are lost in the melee and simply vanish like smoke on the wind. Others of us are pushed into crevices of the writerís mind for later examination and often are forgotten. We find them in their crevices, a mere shadow of their former robust selves.

They might be salvaged if the author takes the time to hear their tale, but often they have lost the original pull and are pushed back into their crevices to wait until they are completely forgotten and then they too vanish from sight.

But for those of us still in line, waiting, the chance that we might be heard and chosen, holds us like a tryout for American Idol draws would-be stars. We all want that moment to shine, to be.

The sad fact is that too often we donít have a story until the author sees us. Some are lucky and born with a tale, but many of us are chosen because we fit into a role already made and that becomes our story. 

But I am one of the lucky ones, I have a story and will leap fully grown into light when the author and I meet.  I will then begin talking as fast I can to hold the authorís attention, to fascinate until she or he is forced to tell my story. 

It is then I look forward to meeting my public.  It awaits...