Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.
― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
I love writing. I can do it anywhere, anytime. Scribble. Or type. Think about it. Or pour my heart out. Any way I like it. There are no rules. Maybe you think there are, but believe me, there are not. How awesome is that? I can just think of something, or make stuff up, write it down.
I have a voice. Like you. You may not know it. You may not think it. But you do. Find it. Use it. Like I do.
Do I want to share it? Keep it to myself? It is up to me. I am in charge. And I love it. There are so many options. I can decide. I have control. Or maybe I just let go. Who knows? I just start, just do. Discover how great I can be. Am. Or how bad I suck. It doesn’t matter either way.
I don’t need to be a reader. I know that now. I thought I had to, but no more. I just have to want to write. And I do. And I do.
I can look different. I can look the same. I can not be seen. I can be lifelike. Fake. Whole. Or broken. I can get mean. I can be gentle. I can be me. Or somebody else. Anyone else. I get to pick.
I don’t have to wait. I can do it now. Here.
I can post. Share. Or not. Now, or later. I can be safe, or seek out danger. For real, or just on the page. And what is real? When I write, it becomes real. As real as can be. As real as I want. As you want it to be. For you. I just wrote it. You read it. It is my gift to you. To me. Take it, leave it. I want it, I have it. You can have it. If you want it.
I can tell a story. My story. Somebody’s. Anybody’s. I can be truthful. Or lie. And it is all right. It is all good. Or bad. It really does not matter. But I do. I just do. I just enjoy. I hope you do too.
When I read my firsttwo stories to her, my wife asked me when I would write a ‘proper story’. First question then is, of course, what constitutes as a ‘proper story’? Not these, so much was clear. These were too vague, and too constructed, according to my beloved critic.
I can see that, by the way. As I am the one who constructed them. Constructed them for story-telling. To get something across that hopefully would mean something to some. And to some it did. But to a lot I think, not so much. Including my wife.
So, just hope is not enough. I have to give it some thought. How to tell a story and not get lost in the construction. A clever construction is not a story. It’s just a skeleton. Without meat and organs nothing is being conveyed, you can see straight through it. I need to block our view, let us see, feel, smell, taste.
I don’ t want to read a book. A story written by someone else. I want my story just to be. Here. For me, for you. Whoever. In front of us. Ahead, into time. Kind of free-flowing into existence. — Damn, typo… But, hurray for spellcheckers.
Right. So. Who is it about? Yes. Carl. Who is Carl? Let me look him up. Ah, there he is. Somewhat older, somewhat vague. I’m not seeing him clearly yet. Carl? You okay? Carl looks sad. Carl has always played second fiddle. Standing next to the beam of light but never smack in the middle of it. I want to give that to Carl, but he keeps stepping aside. Carl? Where are you? Why do you always find your way back to the shadows? What’s so appealing about that? Can you write? Do you know how to tell a story? Your story? Carl? What is your story?
You are working on something, I can tell. Something is about to happen. And your name will be all over it. No sense in denying. Still you will, of course. Doubt always works for you. And we all are left guessing, climbing up the walls. Flies have nothing on us. We see and hear everything these days. And see and hear nothing. And you, you know this.
Should I know how your story ends, Carl? You know what? I don’t want it to end. So it won’t. You keep working and I keep writing. And your story will be.