Let’s play a game.
Suppose you were given a pen, a beautiful golden writing pen.
But there is one catch to this pen, it’s sealed shut, so that you can’t find out how much ink it has.
It might run dry after you write the first few words, or it could have enough ink to create a
You can’t really know for certain.
You just have to take a chance on how long the ink will last.
Then again, there’s no rule that says you have to write anything.
Instead of using the pen, instead of taking a chance, you could put it in a drawer.
Hide it someplace where it will never write a word – never leave a mark.
But if you decide to use the pen, what would you do with it?
Would you plan and plan before you ever wrote a word?
Would you plan so much that you never got to writing?
Or would you plunge right in, letting a torrent of words spill from your pen, taking you wherever
your thoughts might lead?
Would you write cautiously and carefully, as if the pen might run dry at any moment?
Or would you write as if the ink would last forever?
Would you write to please yourself, or would you write for the pleasure of others?
Would your words be brilliantly bold, or lifeless and plain?
And of what would you write?
Of love, hate, despair, hope, or nothing at all.
There’s a lot to think about in this game, isn’t there?
Now, let’s play another game.
Suppose you were given a life…