Confession: I’ve been thinking a lot about storytelling recently. And fighting it, tooth and nail.
See, I’ve been avoiding writing practice, and really haven’t been writing much in general. It’s easy for me to say that I just don’t have the time. Yet, the last three days, I’ve actively made time to do a short writing practice and have been surprised at what has come up. Especially today.
I’ve been using The Writer’s Book of Days for prompts the last two days, and today’s?
These are the seductive voices of the night (after Franz Kafka)
Okay. I’ll work with it.
At some point during the writing, I realized that I felt the need to be forgiven for not writing – and for beating myself up so very much for it. And, it came up that there is this fear crawling through my words that I will not be able to tell the story that I need to – the way it is in my head and my heart, and that somehow, it’s better to not tell it, because I can’t get it Just So.
And yet… I can’t not tell stories. I keep running from them, saying I’m not a storyteller, that my stories look different, and while I’ve been ticking off the reasons why I can’t, won’t, shouldn’t tell stories, they still sing in my blood, they still spill from my pen. There’s one character that I’ve all but abandoned, but … it’s still there, lingering.
So, where does this take me?
I honestly have no idea. It’s like the open alleyway. It’s dark and kind of scary, but to get to the answer, to get to the place where it might be interesting, I have to write. I keep thinking about Rule #11 of Pixar’s 22 Rules of Storytelling, coupled with NCIS’ Gibb’s Rules, #5. (They are “Putting it on paper lets you start fixing it. If it stays in your head, a perfect idea, you’ll never share it with anyone” and “You don’t waste good,” respectively.)
While I don’t know if they’re good, I do know that storytelling is too important to waste.