The Written Word and Falling Light

A stark white page is one of the most beautiful and terrifying things in life. The process of changing a document from a single blank page to a completed novel is often tedious, but can also be wonderful, as long as you are willing to put the necessary time and effort into the adventure. It is a journey that cannot be completed in a day; it requires an extended commitment to the characters and the storylines that they bring with them. You will adore your story at some points, you will hate it at others, and sometimes you will have absolutely no idea where it’s going. But before you worry about any of that, you must simply begin.

The writers I know all agree that there is just something thrilling about opening a new document and seeing the cursor blinking in the top left corner. It seems as though it is hesitating, waiting for you to summon the words that will communicate all of those elusive thoughts that swirl around inside your head.

When you type out that first sentence, there is a sense of accomplishment. The page is no longer blank; the writing has commenced. And then comes hesitation—does that thought make sense once it is outside of my head? You read it over and over, erase it, and ultimately decide to put it back and move on. This process is repeated with the entire first paragraph. It feels messy and muddled, but you do not know what else to do.

After a few minutes, your gaze wanders away from the screen and your mind wanders from the topic about which you were writing. You consider the things in the room, the way they work together to give the space a certain character; then thinking about the concept of a character then reminds you that you are supposed to be writing. You look back at the screen and see that lonely little paragraph. The flashing cursor eggs you on once again.

Then something sparks in your brain. Your fingers find their way to the keys and the thoughts pour out onto the page. Line after line of beautiful, strange shapes come together to form words and sentences that communicate your thoughts to anyone who has the ability to read them.

You repeat this process for hours, days, or even months. Characters gain histories and futures, settings are brought to life, villains scheme, and plots twist in order to drive the tale forward. You press on, even when things make very little sense and there are giant holes in the logic of the story, and eventually you find yourself on the other side. You know what the ending should be and you know how to get the characters there. It’s a magnificent feeling—until you realize that your characters are not the only ones who will be ending this journey.

Writing that final scene is like saying goodbye to a cherished friend. You know that it is for the best, but the words still hurt as you write them. And then it is done; what began as a single questionable sentence is now the first draft of your novel.

The process of taking a photo is considerably different from the writing of a novel, because photography does not begin with a specific action, like opening a document, but with a feeling. Many of the best photos are born of moments when the person behind the camera is simply going about his or her life, with no intentions toward photography.

And then you see it—your eyes alight upon something that captures your attention. You may try to keep going about your business, but there is a part of your mind that is inexplicably drawn back to that one point.

Before you can change your mind, you pick up your camera. This is where photography begins: that moment when you take your camera into your hands and cradle it like it is the most precious and fragile thing in existence. You look back to your subject and decide that out of all the things in the world that people can look at, this is the one that you want them to see. And so you raise the camera.

The world is suddenly narrowed down to one small rectangle of existence. For this moment, everything centers around a single dandelion seed that is resting on the threads of an abandoned spiderweb. Your fingers move over the buttons and switches and you consider how you are going to portray this little window of space and time.

Do you show the whole web, or zoom in on the seed? How much of what is in the background do you keep in focus? One hand twists the lens, the other hand adjusts the aperture, you take a deep breath, and then you press the shutter. Click-clack-click.

When the camera is lowered, the spell is broken and time seems to start again. You are once again aware of the neighbor children shouting in the distance, the sun beating on your face, and the feeling of the grass beneath your bare feet. But none of that really matters to you at that moment. Instead, you tilt the camera and press the review button, bringing up the image you just captured. You see the same dandelion seed that is in front of you, but in a way that is unique from how anyone else will ever observe it. You have successfully captured a moment.

The creative processes behind novels and photographs are vastly different, but their purpose is ultimately the same. Authors and photographers desire to give others a small, beautiful glimpse of their unique way of viewing the world around them.