My heart is a piece of lodestone and all my life I have followed its tugging, no matter that it pulled me away from well-tended paths and instead over mountain ranges, across rivers, and to the farthest ends of the earth. Sometimes my road runs beside another’s and we walk together for a while, learning from each other where our journeys have taken us, and other times my road so deviates from the norm that I find myself alone in the wilderness. Yet either way the compass stone beneath my breast guides me so that I need not question my direction or fear losing my way. I walk to the ocean and I swim through it; I walk to the cliff base and I climb up it; I walk to the waterfall and I jump down it. Where my heart leads, I follow. In thirty years it has not yet lead me astray.
A scribe should know her place. A scribe does not create, she copies. A scribe does not take liberties, she writes only what she is dictated. A scribe does not tell the story, she merely records it. A scribe is but the extension of the pen, and to imagine otherwise is to rise above her station; she is necessary, yes, but like a broken stylus she can be replaced. A scribe would be wise to remember her role and not dare to move beyond its restrictions.
I am the worst kind of scavenger, entirely capable of catching something for myself yet choosing instead to circle and wait, watch idly until some other hunter has taken down its prey and then close in to claim the scraps. I am the worst kind of scavenger, picking lazily through inspiration’s corpse, discarding perfectly acceptable flesh for the choicest morsels deep inside, the ones still wet and warm, the ones that glisten in the sun and require no effort on my part to make beautiful or interesting. I am the worst kind of scavenger, surrounded by potential food yet choosing starvation over exerting even the most minimal energy required to obtain what I want.