I feel so much satisfaction watching the word count grow in the little story flowing from my pen. This joyful enterprise, this crafting of a universe built from memories of a lifetime. This imaginary world I have peopled with those I’ve grown up with, played, schooled, worshiped, worked, and served with. Decorated with scenes that have thrilled my eyes and my mind and lifted my heart. Scenes, too, that have depressed me, hurt me, saddened me.

Whether this creation leaves my writing pad to be enjoyed by others, or remains tucked away in little bytes on my hard drive, I will always have the satisfaction of knowing I built something good, not something good like a birdhouse or a bookshelf or a deck built with the tools in my garage and enjoyed remotely, unthinkingly, for utilitarian value, but something good that tells a little bit about me, a little bit about my longed-for readers, something that may give happiness and inspiration, something filled with value and emotional insight.

If my creation is brought out to the larger world, I like to hope that it endures long after I am gone, that someday someone like me will reach for my book on the shelf, take it down and read it, and like it enough to give it a spot on his own bookshelf. I like to think my little creation will grow old and musty, that it will yellow with time, its pages dog-eared, that it will sit between favored authors. I like to imagine a hand reaching for a favored book and pausing, wavering, hesitating, and then clutching my book, taking it down, and someone like me enjoying the little story that flowed from my pen so many years before.