Feelings in the gut
I've been rolling around in bed sick with the stomach flu for the last two days and I've been thinking about a writing date I've got with an incredibly talented author. These thoughts are probably making me sicker (no offense, jill) so tonight I ran a blisteringly hot bath (great for the chills probably not so much for the fever) and sat sweating in the tub while reading through some stuff I'm working on. Depressing. I'm so stuck. A million ideas and no direction. At one point I was thinking what would Jeanne want me to do? What story would she want me to tell? And it felt really important. And then a few hours later I was on lj reading about the death of this young, vibrant looking woman who I've never met, seeing her smile between the flames and I just keep thinking about the life of stories, how they grow and shrink and mutate, how we are compelled to tell them, create them, pass them along. Besides the flesh and skin of us, there is nothing that is more human being than the story. And maybe in a way the story is even more human being--the tellers, the listeners, the characters within--all moving together, one smooth dance of muscle just beneath the skin.
Reminding myself of how life can be conjured from stories eases my gut. It makes me want to tell a few. Not lose myself in the smallness of my ego or the silence called by fear.
Reminding myself of how life can be conjured from stories eases my gut. It makes me want to tell a few. Not lose myself in the smallness of my ego or the silence called by fear.