A Silly Wish of Mine :)

Oh mercy on us. This is a day in which I could clasp my hands, rise dramatically from the sofa, give a faint groan, and fall down in a swoon over my great longing for something.

What is that something?

To have a discussion with Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, and C.S. Lewis.

To ask them all the questions running around my mind.

Things like, "Were you satisfied with your writing or did you think there were problems in it?"

"Did you know you were writing something brilliant?"

"And you could you please, very gently, read my writing and tell me what you think of it?"

And then I'd blush, and not be able to look at them, and they'd take my poor little book in their hands.

Jane Austen would let her "fine eyes" twinkle at my earnestness, and she'd make a witty remark or two, never letting on what her true opinion was.

Charles Dickens would turn the pages with a languid hand, then stare at me intensely for a full moment, contemplating how he could turn me into a character for one of his novels.

C.S. Lewis, the darling, would be a true gentleman and deal with me kindly, a gentle smiling creeping across his face. He'd fiddle with his pipe, clear his throat, and smile.

And there I'd sit, wishing I had never wished the moment into existence, and I suppose before too long they'd answer all my questions. I don't know why I felt the urge to go off on this tangent of my imagination, but there it is. :)

Do you ever have such an ache to meet these Greats? And all the while knowing you'd be scared silly and make a terrible impression of yourself on them because you were so nervous? :P

But truly, I wonder. Do people destined for literary success ever know it beforehand? Or do they follow many another great person and never have an inkling of what they're starting? I just wonder...and then I smile at how silly I am. :)