Telling Stories

Telling Stories

  Telling stories probably began as soon as language turned into something other than grunting and pointing.  In fact, it was probably the desire to tell a story that encouraged the creation of language. Pictures on cave walls can only go so far. When you look at history, it is just a series of stories stitched together in an unbroken chain from then until now. The story of man (His Story = History) is by no means all inclusive. Rather it’s just a retelling of what someone determined to be the most important parts – a highlight reel as it were. But each of us is an integral part of the greater tapestry of history, and we all have our own story to tell. History looks at the forest, but I find it more interesting to look at the trees. The story that is you, I find fascinating. I would guess this is a common trait for all would-be story tellers. My story, although interesting to me, would probably be extremely dull to most everyone else. But like every great telling, it has had its moments of drama, comedy, tragedy, joy, and sorrow. Being able to tap in to those elements and use them to create make-believe stories is what makes a good writer. I’m not saying here that I am a “good” writer. But I am a writer of stories that are ninety eight percent imaginations and nothing more. And this is how it is with me. I walk around all day with stories going around in my head. It has always been this way for as long as I can remember. Sometimes it’s distracting. In school, I was often characterized as a daydreamer. I was just “reading” one of my own stories and not paying attention to theirs - teachers tend to hate that. The story I’m working on telling to the world right now is in my head and has been for quite some time. It will be good to finally get it all out there on paper, so I can purge it from the system and start on something fresh. Already there’s this private eye guy getting pushy, banging on the door trying to get noticed. And many others have made appearances from time to time and been given a number just like at the ice cream parlor. Everyone does this. Our brains are very good story tellers. It’s what they do best. It never stops. Every detail your senses take in, your brain makes up a story about it. It’s job as a story teller is to decide if what it has perceived is good, bad, real or unreal, happy or sad, exciting or not, worthy of attention or not, etc., etc. all day long. Even at night while we’re sleeping, our brains are still telling stories. Our nighttime dreams are just echoes of our daytime ones. Some of my best ideas come to me in dreams. The difference in you and a writer, is that he has the audacity (and some would say overwhelming ego) to put these stories on paper and think that others might be interested in reading them. Everyone always asks, where does your inspiration come from for your stories? Writers like to blame a Muse or even temporary insanity. But I think my inspiration mostly comes from everything and everyone all around me. I soak it all in like a sponge. My brain mixes it all up like a good Cajun gumbo and dishes it up to me in a bowl on a nice silver platter. So I give my brain and my environment most of the credit for where my stories come from. But I do recognize there are those sneaky moments when something just pops in there from who knows where that makes all the difference in the world to the telling of my story. Now where that comes from, is still a mystery to me. And even with that thought just now, another story came to me. Imagine, if you would, a being on another plane of existence whose everyday job is to sit by this big machine and feed into it random ideas which it then transmits to unsuspecting recipients  while they’re taking a shower. And one day, ignoring protocol and his bitchy boss, he decides to just put his own crap in the machine and see what happens. Hmm…maybe I should have kept that one to myself?