It's four layers.
I've come to notice that I wrinkle my forehead a lot. It's not a particularly attractive feature, but it's mine. I'll own up to it. I have to. By the time I'm forty there will be permanent wrinkles, I promise.
I don't think that's a bad thing.
I was at school yesterday. Confession: not paying attention. And I was writing. Well, attempting to. I wrote something about children and a museum that sprouted two tiny legs and just walked away. I wrote something else about trees split in half by lightning. And I almost wrote the beginning of my fantasy novel.
I've written the beginning at least six times.
I came up with it when I was around fourteen years old. (I'm one of those people who believes that you can actually have good ideas at fourteen years old). I didn't have the right words back then to say and describe and claim everything I imagined. I tried. And I've tried since. But I still don't have the words. I have the pictures in my mind, like a movie. I can play it over and over and over again. In detail too. I even know the lining on the dresses, the number of hallways, the candles in the bedrooms, the books on the shelves.
The names.
I named each of the characters at the start. Sometimes I whisper them, reassuring myself that they still taste right for that other world.
I wish that I could simply forget. Forget four layer cakes. Forget wrinkling my forehead. Forget museums that can walk and oak trees ripped in two. Just forget. And just write it.
I want to be braver.
I wish I had the words. I feel like it's taking so long to grow enough to know them.
But.
"Never give up on a dream just because of the time it will take to accomplish it. The time will pass anyway."
Earl Nightingale was a smart man.
So, for bravery's sake.
Malila.
[muh-lil-uh]. That's how you say it. That's one. Her name.
She's my favorite when I tell it in my head.
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