Watching Someone Read by Marcia Lee Laycock

I was on my way across the country to participate in the School of Writing at Canadian Mennonite University. I was nervous about going, even though my work had been accepted and I'd been granted entrance to the advanced fiction class with Canadian literary icon, Rudy Wiebe. To gain that entrance I had submitted three short stories that I'd worked on long and hard, but I had chosen to workshop another ten pages - part of the sequel to my novel, One Smooth Stone. Would they like it? Would the writing be good enough?

As I settled into my seat on the small plane, the stewardess came down the aisle and asked us all to move forward, to balance the load. I ended up sitting one seat back and across the aisle from a young woman who took out a book to read. As she did so, the colour caught my eye. Hmm ... same colour as the cover of One Smooth Stone.

I watched out the window as the ground dropped away and the plane lifted off, then glanced across the aisle again. The young woman had turned the book. My book. It was a surreal moment. A comforting, though in a way, disconcerting moment. What did she think of it? She seemed to be reading eagerly enough. But did she like it? Was it good enough? For the rest of the flight I peeked over at the woman, trying to gauge her reaction. In the flurry of disembarking I lost track of her and never did find out.

Then I arrived at the University and was swept into the routine of classes and writing assignments. The day my excerpts were to be critiqued, my palms were sweating and my heart was beating a little faster than normal. My fellow classmates began to comment on my work. According to the rules I was not allowed to speak until given permission by the instructor. Staying silent was at once a relief and a hardship. Then Rudy made some comments, asking for further input from the class as they dissecting the excerpt.

Then his words, "This is good writing." Words from "the master." I could have danced down the aisle.

But now the euphoria has worn off as I'm continuing to work on the sequel. What will people think of it? Will it be good enough?

And then I go back to why I write - because it's the way I'm "wired." Because I can't not write. Because the images and characters and scenes and emotions flood out of me through a keyboard and I can't stop them any more than I could stand in a flood and stop the raging waters.
And then I remember who made me this way, who controls what happens to the words I type on this computer, and who will some day say, "well done," if I work in obedience to Him.

And I realize how much I want to hear that Master's voice and how much I want to some day dance down the aisle that leads to His throne. So I go on, trying to be obedient to the task of being a writer, fighting off the self doubt and the need for affirmation from men when the only thing that counts is affirmation from Him.