A friend was rejoicing at the sale of her first manuscript to a publisher. The joy of being able to say my editor for the first time brought back memories.
Yes, there’s nothing like the first.
The first my publisher. The first my editor. The first my book. The first my agent. These can come in a different order, but that^ was mine.
But really, none of these is really mine. I don’t own them.
What writers have are stories. Stories we make with chapters we construct with paragraphs that we make by joining sentences. Sentences we make with words. It boils down to this: the only thing that we own are the words.
Even the words are a gift.
The opening verse from the gospel of John rushes in:
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
The meaning of this enigmatic phrase, for me, is that all comes from thought. Thought extended outward begins with words, and words begin with one word.
As I sit and contemplate this, I realize nothing is mine. I rejoice at having nothing.