I had this idea this morning for a book. It is usually the title that comes to me first. This morning's title was The Privileged Poor. The book I imagine is about growing up poor, in a family of women, fully aware of the impact of sexism and class stratification because I was living it, but also aware of the white privilege that separated me from my black classmates and neighbors.
Immediately, I began to critique the idea. Surely it has already been done by someone more competent than myself. Would anyone really be interested in a book like this? Would I be willing to commit months of my life to a project that will be a long shot for publication? I imagine my book in the clearance bin at Barnes and Noble and tell myself that this is the best case scenario.
I decide to test the idea out on Bill, who still looks a little groggy as he sips his coffee with the morning paper open in front of him. Although my enthusiasm for the idea is waning, I am still excited to share it. In my mind it is still beautiful: it is fully formed, like a globe of shimmering light. But when I reach for it, when I attempt to grasp it, it pops like a soap bubble. It is gone.
I have new ideas for writing projects almost everyday. Each one is like a soap bubble: beautiful and ephemeral. I can't seem to hold onto them for more than a few moments. Perhaps I need to reimagine them, not as soap bubble but as globes of blown glass: still fragile, still beautiful, still capable of capturing and reflecting light but with a solid exterior. It is up to me to store them in a safe place, protect them from the outside world, attend to them on a regular basis and, most importantly, appreciate them. They are products of imagination and imagination is the invisible cord that ties us to The Creative Force.
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