The Writers' Museum

(excuse the mess..it's still in edit)

She came to the museum everyday. She always made her way to my exhibit. She came with friends from time to time making sure she brought them right past me. As if she was showing me off. Oh my, how beautiful she was, long brown hair and big beautiful brown eyes that match her ever so elegant style. Her presence in the museum was intoxicating to all that saw her. She seemed to flow like a light wind when she arrived. 

It only made sense that she came here every day, she was a great writer herself. It’s a writer’s museum that brings all the great and not so great writers to life here. Each exhibit is beautifully crafted for each time period. 

I should introduce myself to you all, after all, I am an exhibit here. My name is Harry Fawnsworth. The year is 1817 and I just finished a great novel about the love of my life. The title of the novel is, “Lisa.” I am a romance novelist. My exhibit is set in a beautiful wood laid library that houses all the books of the past centuries. The writer’s desk I am sitting at is hand carved oak and there are several pages of paper spread along the desk, starving for words that just aren’t coming out. My exhibit is dimly lit with a soft light as to bring to life this time period.

I’m dressed in an eloquent black suit with a white shirt. My shoes are shinny black leather and my hat is black as well. My skin is a bit tan because I loved to sit outside and write. I have a beautiful handlebar mustache waxed up to impress the ladies and make the men jealous. I have a beautiful writing instrument in my hand that was invented during this century. 

Everyday! Everyday she stops and stares at me. For hours she watches me with great intent. I want to speak to her, but I am unable. She’s in the early 1900’s enjoying a progressive era in America. She was enjoying a life of peace and prosperity. What could I possibility have to offer her? I mean my hands don’t move, I can’t talk in this era except for what my exhibit has to offer. I just sit here day after day trapped in my own dimension. Oh, did I mention that I am in a different dimension? 

This writer’s museum is very different than any other museum. We all here as writers can see each other and express to each other behind our exhibits in another dimension if you will. We see you talking and we even read what you write about. There have been times when we were even able to communicate with words by the paper on our desk. That is very rare though. So how does that work you may ask? Well, we really don’t know, sometimes our thoughts just appear on the paper on our desks. Nobody here really knows how or why this happens, but it does. 

Like I’ve said already, day after day this beautiful lady comes in, sometimes now she even speaks to me as if she is making conversation. I can hardly hear her as she speaks so softly. She just sways back and forth and some days she inches so close almost breaching the red velvet ropes that surround me. I can smell the beauty in her hair and her voice. One day she came so close that a slight breeze came through the hall and brushed her hair right on my face. 

That’s when it happened. My words that I thought, now came to life on the paper right under my pen. It was a simple thought that appeared on the paper, “you are so beautiful, join me please.” Signed, “Harry.”

She looked down at the paper and I could see she was shocked. It was as if she was frozen for a moment and couldn’t speak or move. She was paralyzed. Oh my, I thought, what have I done. After a few moments she ran out of the museum. I was as heartbroken as the novel that I just completed. It seemed to end the same way, she just ran away.

I looked for her everyday, we all did. All of us writers no matter what era you were from rallied around this great story that was being written in real time. Day after day and week after week there was no sign of her. Was she gone forever?

Then one day the door on the museum opened and I looked with intent and it was her. My heart jumped and my mind was free from the costly mistake I had made, even though it was not my intention, but the powerful thought of love I have for this beautiful person. She made her way down that long hall way toward my exhibit, very slowly she walked towards me and she inched toward me and I could see her looking at the paper below my pen and the words were still there. Right below my hand were new words, and they read, “I’m sorry.” They had appeared on the paper weeks after she left me. She read them and seemed not to be startled at all. All of the other writers in the museum were watching this romance unfold right before them. Was this even possible? Was it possible to bring another to our world? She just stood there and looked at me for hours, she did. I dared not think to hard because I knew new words would appear on the pages in front of me. I could not make the same mistake. I could see her lips moving as she was speaking to me, but not so loud that I nor anyone else could hear her. She left after a few hours and would return day after day just like in the past. 

Once again, she came in. She had a lanyard around her neck, she had been to a writers convention going on in the convention center next door. We all knew it was going on, we could see and feel the thoughts of all the new writers that were up and coming in the writers world. They were next door speaking about their writings and the impact they would have on humanity.

She came closer to me and I could read her badge and I saw that her name was Lisa. Oh my, I thought, was she the one that had left me in the last novel I finished in 1817? Not to mention this bomb shell, her last name was what? You guessed it, “Fawnsworth.” Who was this beautiful lady? Had she escaped this dimension somehow and left the pages of my last novel in sadness? 

It was her. My sweet Lisa had somehow escaped the pages of my very last novel before I passed. It wasn’t supposed to end that way but somehow it had to because she was gone. She is now found. I can see the love in her eyes. I can see the great salvation that she brings to life and brings the broken to life. She has brought me to an excitement of life even in my own dimension. There is hope that we can finish the novel with a proper ending. Even though it’s a hundred years later. Is she willing? I’m just not sure.

Once lost, but now found. I’ve been blind, but now I see this beauty in front of me. My sweet Lisa continued to return day after day and watch me and the paper beneath my hands waiting for a message, a sign, to come back, a signal to return to her love. 

One day the curator of the museum put an empty chair right beside me for some reason. I wasn’t sure why or what he was doing. He was acting as if I needed a new addition to the exhibit. I was so frustrated by this, but I had no say in this as I was just an exhibit here and honored to be in the mist of the best writers in the world. That empty chair stayed there for months.

Lisa continued to visit day after day and I could see she was perplexed by the empty chair as well. Being so frustrated the words just appeared on the pages in front of me and they inked, “will you join me, Lisa?” Oh my, what will she think when she comes in today? Will she run again? Will she never return? It was time, it’s been long enough, she will either join me or never raise to life this story that needs to end the right way. 

Here she comes, she is a picture of what amazing grace looks likes. So beautiful, full of grace and never judgmental, never failing in her love, but always accepting those full of fault. She looks at the chair and then looks at the page in front of me and sees the words, “will you join me, Lisa?”

She says something in a very soft voice, but I can’t understand her. She steps over the red velvet rope right beside me and places her hand on mine and says, “yes, I will join you.” She sits beside me in the chair. 

The pages come to life now, speaking all the words of grace that abound. I’ve laid myself down to bring the broken to life. she is back now and she knows that His grace is sufficient. How sweet the sound of the words that are now being written. As she sits beside me she begins the process of coming to the dimension of grace and love. The place where she is going and where she belongs. She’s been set free. 

It’s the writer’s museum where stories are written everyday and where the lost are found and new beginnings start. Come by and visit. Your life might be changed by that empty chair. Will you sit?