This morning I began my sixth book. Sixth. Which either means I am hardworking or that publishers have not yet figured out how to block my emails.
The book is titled One Note at a Time. It is about choral music and life, and how both can go gloriously right or spectacularly wrong depending on whether the basses come in on time. Oops, sorry, it could be the sopranos, altos, or tenors too.
As I sat down to write, there was that familiar thrill. That small electric current that runs from heart to head to fingertips.
The joy of beginning!
And then I wondered why that joy should be reserved only for slightly eccentric writers who talk to imaginary readers.
Each of us has been handed a gift. Not the kind you pretend to like at Christmas. Not the striped tie from an uncle who thinks fashion stopped in 1995. I mean a real gift. A talent. An ability. A spark placed quietly inside you by a Creator who did not make duplicates.
Some of us unwrap it with enthusiasm. We tear the paper, throw the ribbon in the air, and start using the thing immediately.
Painters paint. Singers sing. Teachers teach. Accountants balance things that the rest of us have unbalanced for years.
Others open the gift very carefully. They peel one corner of the wrapping, peek inside, whisper ‘oh my goodness’, and then wrap it back up because what if someone laughs. What if it does not look impressive. What if the sopranos drown me out.
Then there is a third category. They unwrap the gift, look at it, say this looks like work, and put it on the shelf next to the rusty treadmill and unread self-help books.
What a waste.
Imagine Beethoven deciding music was too risky. Imagine Mary Kom thinking boxing gloves clashed with her outfit. Imagine your grandmother refusing to cook because someone once criticised her pickle.
History would be poorer. We would be hungrier.
When I begin a book, I feel like a child again. There is mischief in it. There is anticipation. There is the quiet sense that this is what I am meant to do. That this strange habit of stringing thought together is not accidental but assigned.
And so, I say to you today, unwrap your gift. Fully. Not timidly. Not halfway. Do not leave the instruction manual sealed. Do not wait for perfect conditions. There are none. Even in a choir someone is always off key. Life is not a rehearsal. It is opening night.
If God has given you something, it is not to decorate your cupboard. It is to be used. To be enjoyed. To bring joy to others.
I am starting book number six with a grin on my face.
You start yours. Whatever it is. Unwrap it.
And sing. Or write.
But start, and enjoy, the joy of beginning….!