The Writers Museum
She visited the museum every day, consistently making her way to my exhibit. Sometimes, she brought friends along, purposely guiding them past me, almost as if she was showing me off. Her beauty was striking, with long brown hair and captivating brown eyes that matched her elegant style. Her presence in the museum was intoxicating, like a gentle breeze that enchanted everyone who saw her.
It was natural for her to come to the museum; after all, she was a talented writer herself. This museum was dedicated to writers, showcasing both the renowned and lesser-known ones; each exhibit was beautifully crafted for each time period.
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Harry Fawnsworth, and I am an exhibit in this museum. The year is 1817, and I just finished a novel titled “Lisa,” a romantic book that reflects the love of my life. My exhibit is set in a charming wood-laden library that houses all the books of the past centuries. The writer’s desk I occupy is a hand-carved oak piece, surrounded by scattered pages longing for words that elude me. Soft lighting envelops my exhibit, adding a touch of realism to this time period.
I’m dressed in an eloquent black suit paired with a crisp white shirt. My shoes gleam with shiny black leather, matching the hue of my hat. My skin is tan because I loved to sit outside and write. I have a meticulously styled handlebar mustache, waxed up to impress the ladies and make the men jealous. I hold a beautiful writing instrument in my hand that was invented during this century.
Every day, 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 1900s, enjoying a progressive era in America. She revels in a life of peace and prosperity. What could I possibly offer her? My hands don’t move, and my speech is confined to the contents of my exhibit. I just sit here day after day, trapped in my realm. Oh, did I mention I am in a different dimension?
This writer’s museum is different from any other museum. We, as writers, can perceive each other and communicate indirectly, almost as if in another dimension. We observe and comprehend your conversations and written expressions. Occasionally, we have been able to communicate our thoughts to the paper on our desk. So how does that work you may ask? The mechanics behind this phenomenon are a mystery to us; it happens spontaneously and without explanation. It’s a rare occurrence, yet it happens.
Day after day, this beautiful lady comes in. Recently, she even engaged me in conversation; I could hardly hear her because she spoke so softly. She sways back and forth, coming close to breaching the red velvet ropes that surround me. I can smell the beauty in her hair and in her melodious voice. One day, she leaned in so close that a slight breeze caused strands of her hair to brush against my face.
That’s when it happened. My words in my mind came to life on the paper right under my pen. It was a simple thought that appeared on the paper: “You are so beautiful. Please join me. Signed, Harry.”
She looked down at the paper and couldn’t conceal her shock. 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 dashed out of the museum. I was as heartbroken as the novel that I had just completed. It seemed to end the same way; she just ran away.
I looked for her every day; we all did. All of us writers, regardless of our era, rallied around this marvelous story that was being written in real life. Day after day and week after week, there was no sign of her. Was she gone forever?
Then one day, the door to the museum opened; I looked with determination, 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 intent but the powerful thought of love I have for this stunning lady. She made her way down that long hallway toward my exhibit, each step deliberate and calculated. As she approached, I could see her scanning 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 unfazed. The other writers in the museum watched in awe as this romance unfolded right before them. Was it truly possible to bring another to our world like this?
She stood there and stared at me for hours. I dared not dwell too deeply on our connection, knowing that each thought could bring new words to 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 loudly that I or anyone else could hear her. She left after a few hours and would return day after day, just like in the past.
Once more, she entered the room. A lanyard hung around her neck from a recent writers’ convention held next door. We were all aware of the convention, which brought in fledgling authors, sharing their words, dreams, and visions. These writers discussed their stories and the impact their words would have on humanity.
As she drew closer to me, I could read her badge. Her name was Lisa. Oh my, I thought. Was she the one who had left me in the last novel I wrote in 1817? There she was—a bombshell wrapped in mystery. What was her last name? You guessed it, Fawnsworth. Who was this exquisite 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. Now, she is found. I can see the love in her eyes—the great salvation that she brings to life, mending the broken. She has brought me to an excitement for life, even in my 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 can envision 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 placed an empty chair right beside me. I wasn’t sure why or what he was doing. He was acting as if I needed a new addition to the exhibit. This frustrated me, but I had no say in the matter because I was just an exhibit; I was honored to be in the mist of the best writers in the world. That empty chair stayed that way for months.
Lisa continued to visit day after day, and I could see she was perplexed by the empty chair as well. Because of my frustration, 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.
She appears—a picture of amazing grace and exquisite beauty. She is void of judgement, unyielding in her love, and 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 speaks in a gentle voice, but I can’t understand her. She steps over the red velvet rope beside me, 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. Lisa is back now, and she now knows that His grace is sufficient. How sweet the sound of what is now being written. As she sits beside me, she comes 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 every day and where the lost are found and new beginnings start. Come by and visit. That empty chair might change your life. Will you sit?
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