A writer once sat with a pen in her hand,
She dreamed up a world and a wonderful land.
She scribbled and scrawled with a curious eye,
And noticed the who, the what, and the why.
She spotted the smile that was hiding a tear,
And caught the whisper that nobody could hear.
She saw in a glance what most folks would miss,
A longing for hope … or the ache of a kiss.
Some rush through the day, never pausing to see
The hurt in a “hi” or the joy in a “we.”
But writers are supposed to notice the clues.
They look for hues of pinks, purples, and blues.
Stories are built from the tidbits they collect,
From faces and places they choose to inspect.
And when they write true, with a heart open wide,
Their readers will step in, walking right on inside.
So put your hands on the keyboard. Let your seeing grow.
Ask questions. Take notes. Let your caring heart show.
For the best kind of stories, whether many or few,
Are the ones that can see … like Jesus could do.
