#1633

Some writers, I suppose, are like servants; silently observing the scene, forgotten by the players yet privy to every word, every gesture, every glance. Others, I think, must be like cherished confidants, offered secrets and motives in tidbits, gossip passed behind cupped hands. Still others, possibly, are like detectives, piecing together a story based on clues left behind; or like interviewers, prompting with leading questions a whole life to unfold in exposition. What, then, am I, who am none of those things? I am allowed entry to the innermost chambers, my presence noted yet never acknowledged, to stand as silent witness – or is it silent accomplice? I do not interfere; I do not persuade or dissuade; I do not approve or disapprove. Yet I am there, the necessary third, eyes wide, ears open, mouth closed. I am the scribe, who writes yet cannot alter the story. I am the scribe, who witnesses and records all.

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7 thoughts on “#1633

  1. Yes. ~ I’ve likened it to being a “ghost in the walls”; never really materializing anywhere for long; only haunting for a time.

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