The Writer’s Oath
With a firm knock, the double door’s soon open with the ominous voice announcing “Enter,” and I enter the great hall.
It’s jam packed with writers and they scattered everywhere, I still look upon the hall in wonder and I almost forget myself when I remember something.
I need to make sure that the right people know I’m here, they have had many names over the years, “The Druids” was one and “The Helpers” was the other but I prefer to call them “The Secretaries” because they keep everything in order.
I approach the table where they have sat for the two years that I’ve come to this great hall, “State your name please,” one of the hooded Secretaries ask me.
“Heather Pollock,” I answer.
They look at their list for a moment and I can see clearly where my name has been written in their tight hand-writing.
“Welcome back Heather, here is your quill,” the other says to me kindly handing me a mahogany box.
I nod politely and take my box and find a quite space to myself.
I’ve not been coming to these events for long as I’ve only just made my place among the writers but my quill is unique or that’s what they tell me anyway.
I take the quill from the box and hold it in my right hand, it is unique, with its black and white halves and the tiniest sliver of red, it’s the most unique here, expect for the expert’s, they claim to have rainbow quills but I’ve never seen them.
Every writer is given a quill for their ability and their style of writing and it’s rumoured that some quill’s are based on the writer’s personality.
Gazing round the hall, I see the experts in their high chair’s above the chaos and the action, one nods at me and I smile back, I suppose they think I’m still a young upstart and my writing poses a threat to them but that’s just my own speculation.
There are three levels of writer’s here: the young upstarts who have no idea about the writing game and don’t know what they are getting into, the apprentice’s: that’s me, have knowledge and experience about our trade but we have still a long way to climb and then the expert’s keep watch over the young upstarts and the apprentice’s, they are our guides and they take no nonsense.
I shove the box in my robes which I still think are loose but I can’t complain and I try to see if I can find anyone in this vast crowd that I know.
I soon click eyes on a few friends that I know that are in same level as me and I wonder over to speak to them but just as we get talking, the sound of gong goes off in the distance and the great doors are shut. Those left behind, stay behind.
One of the experts gets up from his chair and starts droning on about the ceremony which we will subjected to, it’s dry and boring but we don’t have much choice but to listen to the words, another expert casts a curious glance towards me and I smile meekly and try to look more interested in what’s going on.
“Now we will speak the scared vows that bind us to our cause,” says the man conducting the ceremony.
“Raise your quills and repeat after me,” the man say’s pausing purely for dramatic effect as we raise our quills above ours heads.
“I do solemnly swear that I will keep my oath as a writer…”
“I do solemnly swear that I will keep my oath as a writer”
“I do also swear to keep our writing secrets safe and will not divulge them to anyone…”
“I do also swear to keep our writing secrets safe and will not divulge them to anyone”
“The writer’s oath is scared and shall not be tarnished, I pledge that I will write for as long as I am able for pleasure or for business, I will not write for wealth. I will seek guidance when it is needed most and I will pursue all avenues that I can take. I will write stories or novels or short stories that in time will come to change the world and its readers. I will strive to be the best writer I can be and I will uphold this oath until my dying day or else be punished,” the man said ending the oath.
We repeat what we have already committed to memory, we stand in silence, we stand together, bound by our oath and by our trade, we stand together, as writers.
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