His name was Penn. Could've been his first or his last or none of the above and nowhere near the one on his birth certificate. But he said it was Penn and so what else could she call him? Besides. No other name fit.
He was a writer - of course - who left her notes signed to his Princess from her only P. Her bests swooned when she told them about their romance. "Ooh! A writer!" they gushed, and wanted to devour all he'd written so far.
But he hadn't written anything they could read besides those love letters. And those...well...those were hers. "Wait," she smiled. "Just wait. My Penn will write a masterpiece someday."
But he didn't. Sure, he wrote and submitted his share of short stories, but something was always missing from them. Like the one about a little boy's life ravaged by a war in Afghanistan; he'd never been there, so it lacked direction. The story about volunteer clowns lacked humor and color. His piece about heart transplants lacked soul. And on and on and on. The only thing he ever published was one vitriolic letter to the editor.
One morning after years and yet another rejection, she whispered a good morning to him and he whispered back that he was a failure. That he wasn't a writer.
And his Princess just smiled. "Think of our love story, and tell me you're not a writer. Think of our babies and tell me you know nothing about adding gorgeous chapters that make a story even better. We've never had any edits. You've written our life so eloquently, I could read us over and over again."
That's all it took. That brilliant reminder...
We write our stories daily. Hourly. Minute to minute. We're all published authors. So tell me: what sort of story will you write today?
This reminds me of the Princess and the Pea, doesn't it? Be sure to write a lovely weekend for yourselves!
