Beginning is a word. Starting is another. Together, words form a sentence. Sentences can be short. Or sentences can run on and on until the reader feels the cadence of the writer, the pauses from the commas showing thought and reflection and their eyes growing weary as they scan back and forth. String enough sentences together and paragraphs form from the ether.
“I don’t know where to start,” is what the writer would say, his grammatical intention exposed through quotes. “I’m not very good.”
But the writer, he does start. He steps into the ring and the challenger stands before him. “I prompt you” they say and he bows and begins. The words fall like rocks from a cliff face, striking the screen and appearing exactly as they are. And the lurkers, they come and they sigh their indifference. Have an upvote they say placatingly.
And the writer falters. He bows out of the ring and hangs his head in shame and slams fist after fist into that cliff face and the mountain it yields. The writer enters the wring and shouts “Prompt me!” and the ring, it answers. The writer writes.
And writes until his hands are sore. During the day when the prompts are cheered by thousands, or at night when it is just the writer and the prompter. He writes and he stops and he starts. The mountain is shaped, formed.
And now the writer can feel it. The truth in the stone. The beauty in the effort.
It doesn’t matter how much you start. Or whether the wind stops to look at your work. It doesn’t even matter that one day the mountain will crumble. The only thing that matters is that you do and you try and with every strike you get stronger, with every tap you sharpen your mind and perfect the wit or the story or the plot. A sentence is only a string of words.
And so the writer writes and the reader reads and never the twain shall meet except to stare at the mountain they built.
Prompt originally posted by MagicOfFriendship on reddit and received 4 upvotes.