(What is Something?) What Do You Owe Your Audience?

Here's the link to one of my more creative essays as it appeared in Tiny Lights or you may read it at this blog.  Here's the link:   http://tiny-lights.com/searchlights.php?id=1435#1431 and here's the essay:

What is Something by Sara Etgen-Baker

In a city called Valinor, there once was a beautiful and gifted elfin scribe known as Linwë Anwarünya. Now it happened one day that Linwë ventured into the Scribal Hall of Gimlé where she and other future scribes often gathered to practice their writing craft and listen to advice from the elder scribes.

Linwë pushed her way through the crowd and noticed a great whispering noise filled the hall. But when Lord Felagund flung open the huge wooden doors, silence descended upon the room.

Lord Felagund stepped up to the podium and cast his eyes out upon the crowd. "You there, young scribe." He pointed his twisted, bony index finger directly at Linwë. "What's your name and what advice do you seek from me today?"

"My name's Linwë Anwarünya." She gathered her thoughts. "Lord Felagund, what does a scribe owe its audience?"

"Well, ummm," he cleared his throat. "The moment a scribe decides, ‘I want others to read this,' he owes those others something."

Linwë stared at him with a blank look. "Exactly what is something?"

"It's simple," he said. "You owe them a story with them in mind." Lord Felagund peered over his glasses.

"Knowing that others will be reading your story, you owe it to them to be entertaining. You owe it to them to make sure there are no plot holes." He raised one eyebrow and gave Linwë a glassy stare. "You know what plot holes are, right?"

She nodded her head and stared back at him.

"You must care about the characters. You must care about the setting and time." He slammed his fist on the podium with authority. "You owe them an authentic story that will keep them turning the pages long after the cave crickets begin chirping at night."

"But, sir…." Linwë fought back the tears. "What if they still don't like my story?"

"Take heart, young scribe, not every reader will like every story. That's how it should be. Don't be upset about that, for it maintains balance and order in the scribal universe."

With that, Lord Felagund removed his glasses, stepped away from the podium, and said to the cheering crowd, "Now go forth and scribe."

Sara Etgen-Baker recently met Lord Felagund’s modern-day counterpart at a writer’s workshop.

 an elfin scribe

 

ME AND MAJESTIC

THE COUNTRY PRINCESS

 

Since we moved to Anna, I’ve missed the tree-lined trails in Allen along which I ran every morning. I’ve missed the crunching of the leaves under my feet and the morning dew glistening on the grass and leaves of the trees.    I’ve yearned for the inhabitants I often encountered while running along the shady trails—the squirrels, the rabbits, and the variety of birds singing their morning serenades.   But our new neighborhood is so new that the trees are small and provide little shade and, therefore, don’t attract the host of creatures I’m accustomed to seeing. 

Although I’ve looked, I’ve yet to see a single squirrel or rabbit—only the occasional unleashed dog or the meandering skunk as it makes its way down the county road.  I usually jog down my street; make a slight left; and then a right turn onto County Road 1106.  There are few trees along this concrete path, but each day I trudge forward hoping I’ll find what I’m looking for.  Eventually, I arrive at the junction of County Roads 1106 and 426—a great place to catch my breath before turning around and heading west back down the county road. 

Each morning I’ve stopped here and admired the horses grazing in the pasture adjacent to a small trailer home.  One horse in particular has caught my attention; when I stop, she raises her head; our eyes met; and we eyeball one another briefly.  Then a few days ago, I began a one-way conversation with this horse and dubbed her Majestic—simply because she looks so regal.  She’s a brown beauty with a white triangular crown that extends from her nose up to her ears; her hooves are white; and she prances through the pasture with a certain air about her.  Every morning hence I’ve paused; called her by name; and ventured a bit closer to the fence that separates the two of us. 

Today when I arrived at the junction, Majestic was only about 30 yards from the fence; I lingered at the fence and called her by name.  “Good morning, Miss Majestic.  How’s the country princess today?” 

She raised her head and tousled her mane as if to say “Hello.  Do you have an apple for me?”  I inched closer to the fence. 

“Aren’t you a regal lady, Miss Majestic!”  She advanced cautiously; I stood in awe at the beauty of the animal approaching me.  I moved a couple of steps closer; Majestic came right up to the fence!  I slowly reached my hand through the opening; she stared into my eyes.  I gingerly stroked her nose and neck first on the right side then on the left.   I stroked her several times until she told me it was time to go.

“Okay, Majestic.  Thanks for letting me visit.”  I backed away slowly.  “Tomorrow, Majestic, I’ll bring you an apple from home.”  For an instant I thought I saw her wink at me.    Time stood still; and at that moment I understood what serendipity is—stumbling upon something truly wonderful while looking for something entirely different.