Judy Schneider's Writing Lab

I've come to notice that when I drive up to the '50s-style, tinted green, slanted-out window, if my woman at the bank isn't there, I'm a bit disappointed. So later in the week, I might scrape together a couple of dollars to be sent to her through the tube, the whir of which has become a great dialogue initiator.

A couple of weeks ago, I entered the far lane and pushed the button to summon the woman at the bank. She appeared and before I could talk said, "What are you working on?"

I proceeded to offer details about my current work-in-progress, the first draft of a novel.

"But what about the other one?" She was referring to a novel I had completed about a year prior.

"Oh, it's not good enough," I said. "I'm not going to try to sell that one."

"I'll read it."

The directness of her statement bounced around the interior of my car...and my brain. "That's okay, thanks, I'm not working on it anymore."

"I don't care, I'll read it."

Now, what was I supposed to do?

She continued, "I'm going on vacation in three weeks and I'd love to curl up with your book and read."

By then, the transaction had ended and it was time for my response. "I might take you up on that," I said. But I was fairly certain I wouldn't. Why waste time on something that's not going to sell?

For nine days, I did nothing with the woman at the bank's offer, her induction of potential, her giving of possibility.

But it gnawed at me. I should give her something.

I toyed with presenting her with the first third of the novel I was currently working on. But what fun would that be for her, a book with no ending? I pondered giving her nothing at all, but not for very long.

By day ten, I turned to my dear friend and colleague, Mary. "What should I do?" I explained how I didn't want to bite, slap, or even ignore a hand that was reaching out to help. And yet, how could I allow a stranger's first look at my work to be tainted by a mediocre presentation?

Clutching her coffee mug, Mary responded. "Work on it, then give it to her." They were simple commands, yet they were the words my hungry inner self longed to hear.

The timing wasn't perfect, as it rarely is, but this situation had a potential I couldn't let pass. It would be the first time a non-writing reader would experience my fiction. And through an exchange with Mary, I was committed.

Ignoring the dread that often accompanies that first look at a several-hundred-page revision, I printed and revised and typed in my edits, beginning before the dawn of day (usually from 4:00 to 6:00 AM) and ending long after I would have ordinarily needed rest. By Friday, day 21, I handed the woman at the bank 17 chapters, less than half of the book. With that, however, I had gained, not only the satisfaction of having met (at least partially) a deadline, but the momentum of being immersed in the project.

On Monday morning at 8:15 AM, my phone rang. The woman at the bank had stayed up past 1:00 in the morning to finish reading my partial book. "I couldn't put it down," she said. "I have to know what your antagonist is up to."

I didn't answer, still trying to let the joy sink in. I had been affirmed. And it felt great!

She interrupted my welling with "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

I told her no and we set a new deadline.

We all have what it takes to create potential for ourselves. So why don't we? Sometimes inducing possibilities involves taking risks, risking the puncture of our protective coating that keeps us safe inside our own little worlds, gambling that image we hope to portray, taking a chance on changing how someone views who we are.

This week, I challenge you, in Kierkegaard's words, to have an eye that "sees the possible." The lure of possibility is a magnet. I invite you to share your stories of potential that you've created, induced, and seized. Take a chance and answer the question, how have you been drawn in?