I have a question.
If whatever it is you are going through right now – your current story – had a front and back cover, would it be easier to let go of the ending?
This, of course, assumes you struggle with letting go, like I do.
I struggle in very subtle ways I’ve come to learn.
For example, not being able to stop working on a postcard design for my new product line when it’s not coming together like I thought: thinking that if I just try harder, scoot in closer to my laptop, then I’ll force it into submission and love the end result; forgetting that walking away and doing something else entirely —forgetting about it—is an important part of the creative process.
Letting go. Sigh.
There it is again: the crucial element to all real transformation. (See “Are you a seed? Part I”)
But if this silly, minuscule incident were the basis for a novel (how riveting), what would I, the reader (not the heroine) assume was going to happen here? That the postcard design would be a disaster and never go to print?
Maybe.
But what if the book were called Jenny, the Amazing Postcard Designer (a bestseller, no doubt).
Then I, the reader, might feel Jenny’s frustration in this moment and sympathize with her creative struggle. But, because I knew the title, I would also know that Jenny was going to persevere and become the most amazing postcard designer in town, maybe the world.
So when I read the part where Jenny is furrowing her eyebrows at her computer screen, I wouldn’t be too stressed about the outcome.
I would also assume that Jenny would go through some sort of transformation process herself and be more than just an exceptional postcard designer by the end of the book.
Perhaps she would be more humble, more patient, more willing to let go of what she could not control: more prepared to handle the struggle she would undoubtedly face in the sequel (Jenny: More than Just an Amazing Postcard Designer).
I mean, surely Jenny, the Amazing Postcard Designer has a front and back cover for a reason.
But what is the significance of a front and back cover, really?
That there is an author here, for one, and that the author believed this was a story worth telling.
In this way, front and back covers are very reassuring.
But here’s another example, about an actual novel worth reading.
Anne of Green Gables … were you stressed and anxious when Anne showed up at the Cuthbert’s home and Marilla asked Matthew ‘where the heck is the boy we wanted?’
If your shoulders got a little tense at that part, you relaxed when you remembered the words on the cover of the book: Anne of Green Gables. Not Anne the Forever Orphan.
As Anne saw her dreams crumble before her eyes, you smiled in wise understanding.
You, after all, had what Anne did not: hindsight in the form of a paperback.
The question for you, the reader, was not, “will she stay??” But rather, “how will she get to stay?”
Maybe you are thinking right now, “I see your point here: that we might do well to zoom out of our current story and the narrative we are telling ourselves and imagine what a hypothetical book cover might do for our perspective. But this begs a pretty big question. Even if we accepted that our lives did have a metaphorical front and back cover, who’s to say that the title indicates that all shall be well? What if the invisible title to my story is indicative of a cautionary tale or straight up doom? What exactly are we to take comfort in?”
But that’s the question I was getting at, at the beginning of this.
The question of the title isn’t the thing. Until it goes to print, the title can always change.
Most authors have a working title when they begin their story that will change significantly if not completely, once the story is done.
(Fictional characters have a way of altering the story in ways the author doesn’t anticipate, after all. These characters have far more agency than they think.)
The bigger question is about the existence of the covers at all. Is your life/story a random act of chance or is your life/story a gift?
In terms of understanding your purpose, this question is crucial.
Anne Shirley was created from the pen of Lucy Maud Montgomery, who wrote her into existence from a place of love and compassion, despite her many faults and limited perspective.
If Anne of Green Gables were a compilation of words blown together by the wind, you might not have read it with the same kind of trust. The story could go in any number of directions, if it even made sense at all.
There would be no peace in such a reading experience.
So I guess my question is this: if we truly believed our lives were a gift, that there is an author behind each of our stories (For there would have to be a gift-giver, no?), just like Anne’s … what would that change?
I’m not suggesting that the answer here is simple.
But this is an invitation to join me for a moment … in my posture against the windowsill, twirling my hair and gazing at the sun’s reflection on the Lake of Shining Waters – all light and shadow – (when we should be doing geometry) … in wondering about all these things.
What are you pondering right now? Tell us in the comments.
Artwork copyright Jenny Williams 2024
If you enjoyed this post, you may also enjoy these heroine-journey-musings: ‘Are YOU a heroine?’ If you have a friend who is on her own heroine journey, please consider sharing this post!
