The next time you sit down to write, whisper the words “I am immortal,” to yourself. A writer lives forever. Long after we have gone to that place in the sky our words will live on.
A photograph reminds you of what the person looked like. A voice recording preserves the sound of a person’s voice. A memory is a collection of moments, but words are the essence of the being. Think about all of the famous authors who have been dead for decades. Their words are still read in classrooms. Their lessons are still being taught. They are dead but through their work they remain very much alive.
After my father died, I did all of the things a grieving person does. I looked at pictures of him. I called his phone to hear his voice on the message. I cried remembering the times we shared. But, it wasn’t until I read through his e-mails and stumbled upon his comments on my previous blog that I felt like he was still with me. Reading his words comforted me more than I ever knew it could.
We may not become famous but someone will appreciate everything we wrote after we are no longer here.
My children will get to discover me all over again after I’m gone. I find solace in the fact that my words will be left for them to read. After all, a writer never dies.