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Lakin: Now
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It’s said the lotus represents purity. In Buddhism, the lotus flower is revered, its value to the human condition a staple in many proverbs and metaphors. Gautama Buddha often spoke of how the lotus came from the muddy sludge, and rose above to spring through the water surface unsoiled.
Botanist and lotus expert Thomas Ryker explains the lotus effect more scientifically, describing the self-cleaning properties. As the lotus unfolds each morning, it cleanses itself of dirt and debris, the filth collecting in the dew and rolling off its leaves. The texture of the lotus leaf produces a hydrophobic ability: repelling water.
I could go into further detail, expounding on the years of research I’ve devoted to this remarkable flower. I could also illustrate what I personally know from my own experience: the silky feel of the petals when submerged, the way the stalks cling to hair. How, despite the beauty on the water surface above, just below is a dark, desolate world—a shadow world—void of life. Where the stalks twine and trap like a spider’s legs, and no matter how hard you fight to escape, you’re forever entombed.
A shiver crawls along my skin, and I hit Enter to start a new line.
It’s a warped piece of irony, for such beauty on the surface is terrifying beneath.
You can love and fear a thing all at once.
I stop rocking and swipe the mouse pad, toggling the computer screen from one document page to the other. I do it again. Back and forth.
Two documents are open on my Mac. Two incomplete novels. One has been incomplete for years. The other is a shiny new, blank page.
My fingers probe for the rubber band around my wrist. I roll the pads of my fingers over the band as I think, then I flip back to the previous document and continue.
I read a proverb—though I can’t recall by whom—that states knowledge dispels fear. Trepidation only exists because we do not understand what we fear. That, by uncovering the mystery, we slay our demons.
This is my only hope as I endeavor to be as pure as the beautiful lotus that haunts me.
That’s about as poetic as I’ll get on the subject. I’ve made many attempts to describe the lotus, what it signifies to me, since nothing scientific does it justice. I fail every time. And truthfully, my inability to describe what the lotus means to me goes much deeper than mere word choice.
There’s a boiler of shame holding me back.
Truth is, I’m not a botanist. I’m not a scientist. And after
failing to complete my major, sadly, I’m not a psychologist, either.
I’m a true crime writer.
And as a writer, I’m allowed to take certain creative liberties. Transforming people’s very real lives, their experiences, their pain and sorrow—that which I sharpen myself against—into a story. Readers want the truth. But they also want the fiction.
That’s what sells books.
My publisher sells a lot of books.
The word deadline has become one I loathe.
I tell myself the deadlines are what keep me from completing my own story, uncovering my own mystery…but after all this time, it’s getting harder to swallow that lie.
Deep breath, and I flip over to the newest document.
The Delany murder. What is the mystery? I ask the blank page.
I push back in my glider, stare at the screen. The white page with the little blinking curser, a taunt. Writer’s block, I don’t believe in it. It’s a lame excuse we writers rely on when the simple truth is we’ve lost the imagination.
No, I’m not blocked—I’m sidetracked.
This is not my story.
In order to weave a tale around the Delany murder, one needs all the pieces. I don’t have them. Not yet. For now, there’s a human element missing. Some facet of the victim or even the killer that is required to reveal the humanity.
Fine. Invent it—that’s what I do.
