There
are so many ways to tell a story. Where does one begin?
I wonder if I'll ever actually write a book, or if my personal hell will be to start and stop and worry and wonder for so long that I just burn myself out? I feel like I need an audience (case in point: choosing to write here instead of in a silent, barren Word doc), and yet...I have no audience anymore. And no real will to conjure one. Probably I just need Valium or Xanax or lovely little bursts of beer. Something to untangle my bundles of nerves, something to melt the stress off the inside of my skin like candle wax......Not that there's not plenty to worry about, but just that I shouldn't. Instead, I should write. For no one, for anyone, for ME. It helps my brain to function properly when I put fingers to QWERTY and let them tap out the thoughts I can't seem to hold onto. I need a little less conversation and a little more action, but replace "little" with "hell of a lot" and we have a good start. I miss this. This...talking to myself. This stream-of-consciousness blurted onto the page.
And so, I have stories to tell. Many, many, many of them. And I should be chronicling my life in some simple way--so that when I look back I have a story to follow, and I am reminded of nuances of my daily life that may have slipped my mind by then. I love the ten years-worth from teenagerhood through young adulthood that I do have, but I've missed the most important parts of my life--marriage, childbirth, divorce, remarriage, deaths, moving........I should have captured those things in real time. But I guess It's not too late. I can capture what I do remember. And maybe bring back some of my writerly skills and instincts. I need a mentor, a guide. Someone to encourage me and to provide focus for me. But, I guess I could just do that for myself :)
