...Playing Field

...in a few short days, the world as we know it will come to a grinding halt. Ever-present worries and tedious affairs being cast aside for an evening, as a multitude of countless observers lay siege to family rooms and man caves spanning the globe, all channels tuned to Super Bowl Sunday.

We set our ovens ablaze with pizza and bowls of festering chili. We stuff our faces, share some laughs, and cheer on as two rival combatants partake in good-natured bloodshed.

For they are the final two, dueling for the right to be the last man standing. They've accomplished what their opposition stumbled upon...survival. And regardless of Sunday evening's eventual victor, both teams have experienced that feeling of confidence. Of falling into a groove.

As writers, it's an experience worth treasuring. When every word is perfect, the diaglogue as natural as a conversation on a street corner, a performance worthy of tears.

I've read of storytellers being unable to remember penning a particular scene, their minds too engrossed in the drama being played out to focus on words spattering across the monitor. Throbbing fingers hammering on keys, where only the seizing of cramps can slow one's pace. Where days grow somber, and the hours pass to a sun's rise before one ponders as to wherever the night has gone.

For only then will we make it onto that playing field. Where the likes of Gaiman and King, Sandford and Clark, come out to play. To wine and dance. Speaking of such tales as "Neverwhere," and "Salem's Lot." Of "Horns," "Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell," and "The Story of Edgar Sawtelle," whispering of secrets that only those on the playing field have earned the right to hear.

Perhaps over time we'll get there. Perhaps not. I've heard them say however, those who've been there, whose creations have been deemed worthy, that we'll know it when it happens. When the story's ebb and flow is reminiscent of life itself, one built of extraordinary circumstance.

And when asked how to get there, how to reach that point of literary supremacy, the great ones, they all shrug and say, "Just keep writing."

Enjoy the game!

El