Heaven's Library

There is a paradox about writers, at least for me. I have problems with ideas. They tell me that every writer has the same problem but I can’t say that Michael Critchton appears to have ever experienced that phenomenon, nor has Patricia Cornwell. I have a boring, uninteresting life so my choices are rather slim, but sometimes a good idea can pop up out of nowhere and average things end up as grist for the mill.

For me, the effect is somewhat like standing in front of the mirror brushing your teeth and without warning, a third eye appears in your forehead. Toothpaste runs down the front of your shirt and your electric toothbrush roars off without you. I usually have the presence of mind enough to stop the toothbrush, rinse, and find a pad and pen before I lose it completely.

For a couple of years I have been getting these scenes in my head that just seem to pour out on the paper. I race to get them down and end up with a couple of thousand words at a time. Last year I realized that I had a story. I had written enough by this time that I knew the direction I wanted it to go. I had the main characters assigned to the parts I wanted them to play and the bad guy was already decided. Everything was sailing along on crystal seas. I could feel the summer breeze in my hair and feel the warm sun caressing my skin.
Then, that third eye thing happened and changed everything. I sat down on the toilet seat to recover. I had never had such a thing happen before and the impact was shattering to my psyche. How could such a thing happen when one had the story already planned and things were flowing well? I had heard of such epiphanies but never believed in them. Did I say everything had changed?

Once I was able to take my head from between my knees, I went to my computer and dashed off an email to my writing professor from college. He is quite adept as slapping sense back into his students and he relishes doing it. We have remained friends because I like gruff, opinionated people who are nice to me. I think he is nice to me because I like gruff, opinionated people. Ultimately, he is a born teacher and will offer tons of advice in terse form.

His response was as terse and comforting as I could have hoped. “Way too often characters go their own way. You can’t stop them. And, in the long run, it works out rather well. It is as though your subconscious is at least one curve ahead of you.

“Besides, you have to learn that nobody is as pure as you want them to be. Broken, lost people find their way, and we are charmed by those stories. Equally, people we think know what they are doing and are good turn out to be bad apples. Those stories smart a little, but it reminds us of reality.

“I’d just go the way the character wants to go. Nudge him into place later.”

It sounded like good advice. I felt better, assured I was not crazy to follow where the erratic muse was leading. It was after 1:00 a.m. by then so I went to bed, thinking about the changes that would be needed in the story. As I was contemplating the major changes to my story line and drifting off to sleep that third eye popped open and a new thought began to take shape. I was learning quickly that this was a double-edged sword, both painful and instructive. Fortunately, this time, I was not brushing my teeth. To this day, I am still not sure if I was dreaming or not. I didn’t stop the process. I just allowed my mind to drift along on the dream.

I was in a long corridor in a palace. Tall, gilt-trimmed columns supported the ceiling and along the walls were floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. There were millions of books and other corridors went off to the left and right all along the central corridor. I had never seen such a library. It was book-lover’s heaven. A dozen lifetimes would not be enough to read them all. I could almost feel the disappointment with the realization that I would never be able to read every book.

I moved along the corridors and wondered what all these books were and immediately, I knew that I was standing in Heaven’s Library. No other place could such a building exist, with such vast halls and so many books. I was curious as to what they could possibly contain to merit lining the halls of the creator’s palace. What importance could they have to him that he would keep them?

My mind shuffled through scripture, searching for places in the Bible that referred to books and writers. Paul called Jesus the author (Hebrews 2:20; 5:9; 7:10; 12:2; and 20:12). And John said, “And I saw the dead, the great and the small, standing before the throne; and the books were opened: and another book was opened, which is the book of life: and the dead were judged out of the things which were written in the books, according to their works.” (Revelation 20:12).

It was the first time in my life I really thought about the four words in the middle of that verse. Everyone always puts such importance on what was happening in the chapter and they never mention those four words, “the books were opened”. But here, in my dream or vision, as I began to examine the books closely, I believe I found an answer something important.

Each book is the draft of an individual’s life written by the creator. They contain the vital statistics of each person at each stage of their life. When the Bible tells us he knows the number of hairs on our head, it is because he has a record in our book.

What is even more interesting is that each book -- yours, mine, your friend’s -- tells the story as He would like the story of that person’s life, each step he would like them to take, every word he would like to hear them say. The characters are people he loves. They have traits and habits and talents. He knows their abilities and he wants them to use them as he planned. He wrote each one as a love story and all the endings are beautiful, happy endings. Then, He placed them on the shelves and handed the pen to the lead character . . . because editing the final draft is up to them.

He has to let the character finish the story. He has no choice. Every character in every story has the ability to do as they please. He knows how HE wants the story to go but the characters, as in any good story, write the story themselves. They can do what they want, go where they want, say what they want, and think what they want. The Author can stop them but ultimately once he creates the character and puts him in the story, he gives them life. Once they begin to breath, they begin to go their own way. The greatest Author won’t interfere but will allow the story to unfold.

The characters can make choices that change the entire direction of the intended story. They may take paths that lead to dead ends and have to be backtracked in order to find a better direction. They do things that they were never intended to do and say things they were not intended to say. They even think things they were never supposed to think.

The Author can try to pull them back on track but if he does, characters can become down right hostile. They balk, they fight, they argue, they struggle and run. He can gently try to steer them back on course. With some, he succeeds and the story exceeds his expectations. The character does wonderful, amazing things.

However, many times the characters simply do not cooperate and the story falls apart. It may be re-written … sometimes over and over, but to no avail. The story reaches a point that the Author knows it is never going to be publishable. Yet, he doesn’t throw it out. He puts it in a place where no one ever sees it, no one but him. Only he knows how the story was supposed to go. And for every unfinished novel a part of him grieves. As he reads over his writing he sees gems throughout that confirm the writing was good. The story was right but something… something special just never appeared or the character took a wrong turn.

The Author never feels that any story is a waste of time but some just never reach their potential. Ultimately, the finished product will never be what it was intended to be. They are aligned along the shelves, never forgotten but never reaching the masses with their message. And so, the corridors of the Court of Heaven are lined with works in progress, unfinished masterpieces, final drafts that just did not meet expectations, and the world will never read the real story, the one that would have made a difference.

My dream ended and I don’t really know what else I saw or learned there. Maybe it was really a dream that meant nothing. For me, it was a revelation into my own life. I am an unfinished product and my life is still being written. I get to decide which story is told.

A great poet said these words, “. . . my tongue is the pen of a ready writer: . .” (Ps. 45:1) Ultimately, it is up to me. I can tell the story my way or I can take the first draft, find ways to improve on the plan, polish it, add special touches until it shines. I can be bound in leaves of gold and put in a place of honor for all to read. Or I can be one of the unfinished manuscripts that no one ever reads and which will remain stored in the library of Heaven as a memorial to what could have been.