It’s a Process

Someone quite wise said to me today that there are people who are authors and people who are storytellers.
Authors write – and they may/may not care what the audience thinks. There is a story and it must get out, must burn across the pages, must be pulled out in gooey globs from their minds. It is a drive, like needing food or sleep or air.
Storytellers tell stories (bear with me here) – they have an idea, and they want to flesh the idea out to see where it goes, yes. But more, they want to know that it had a visceral effect on the person(s) listening or reading said idea.
And of course, these two types of folk are not mutually exclusive. There are storytellers who are authors, and vice versa. (An author who bleeds a story out and is so excited to share it with other people; a storyteller whose idea is so fantastical that they sit for hours, days, years putting it together because when they finally finish and tell it, it will be *so* glorious.)
I tend to think I fall into the latter camp – the storyteller. It’s why I excitedly share bits that I’ve written *thus far* with trusted beloveds. It’s why when the words dry up, it hurts in deep places. (Again, not saying that authors don’t feel this sort of thing.) Part of my psyche is a desire to entertain, to frighten, to make you *feel* when you read or hear something I’ve put together.
It’s magic.
I truly believe that words, that language is a kind of magic. I make noises and people understand and have an emotional response to them? I scribble scratches onto paper (or tippy-tap on some little buttons and said scratches appear on a glowing screen,   ) and the same thing could happen. It’s a learned skill, an agreement between folks that these noises and scratches mean something.
That we agree that ‘blue’ could be the color of your draperies, the sky, and an egg – or that it could be a complex set of emotions. Or a simple one, and it all depends on the context – the addition of other noises/scratches.
Fucking indescribable how amazing that is to me.
And I seem to have a gift(*) at it. I tell stories, I write tales, I run games that I’ve cobbled together and people enjoy them. They giggle, they fume, they weep; and they come back for more.
And I *love* that.
Love it.
It is not a validation of myself as a person. It is an acknowledgment of the work(s) that I have done. The works that I hope to continue to do.
So, when the words dry up and I find myself staring at a blinking cursor, even when I have ideas circling my brain like hungry sharks, the dismay is also indescribable.
I know the words will come back. They always do. This is a bump in the road, not the Abyss leading to the Plains of Leng, for chrissakes.
If you’ve made it this far, just know that I tend to write out my thoughts as a way to process things. I have done this in various forms for years. It isn’t necessarily a plea for help. Just a way for me to shake the snowglobe of my brain and see what settles. And what floats.
Because (you knew this was coming, yes?) We all float down here, Georgie.
Much love you rapscallions. I adore you twisted little fuckers.
#latenightruminations
#writingisaprocess
* – my anxiety wants to quantify this as “a bit of a gift”. Fuck that, Traitor Brain. I have had too much feedback over the years that says otherwise.

I know I have been gone…

…things have been brain-chancey.

 

I’m working on it.

 

For now, here’s my latest thoughts. From my FB.

 

I am not usually one to post anything political. But this shit? Has to stop.

I posted earlier, elsewhere:

“…
I wanted to write something pithy and deep. Fraught with meaning and nuance. Something to reach out and touch the hearts of people. Make them think, react, pro-act, vote, change, something. ANYthing.
But my Muse is gone, the denier media is in full swing, and I am just too heartsore.
Oh, god.
No more. Please. Just no more.”

——

*has tea*
*straightens vest*

I can do better. We all can.
I will keep fighting, doing my little bit, trying to expand that bit.

Because this is my world. These are my humans. All of them. My Beloveds. All of humanity. Fuck your inability to see what’s happening. Fuck. It.

We can do better.
We can do better.
We can do better.

I believe that.

I will keep finding ways to do so, to bring to light the hate and injustice and inequality and imbalance.
Because this? This is wrong. Wrong. WRONG.

There is NO justification. There is nothing you can say that will make any of this right. Not these latest victims, not the ones that were wearing hoodies, or had a play gun, or who were swimming in a place that others thought they shouldn’t be.

FUCK your discomfort. Expand your goddamn mind. Broaden your fucking horizons. This is our *world* and you are fucking,it.up so that you can be more comfortable.

Reach out, find ways to heal hurts, find ways to redress the balance, find ways to not give excuses to the hurters.

Because if we don’t? Orwell would be right. And fuck a bunch of that.

‪#‎noONEismoreEqual‬

in media dolor

 

 

Camelia glanced out the window again. Yep. It was still there. She tucked her head back down, pretending to stretch out her neck. Why in the hell did the bus have to break down at this particular corner? It had no less than three of those stupid memorials – crosses, plastic flowers, and teddy bears in profusion – arranged on it. One of them had been nailed to a battered telephone pole, the now-gray gouges in the creosote and wood marking where something awful had happened. Cam felt her eyes being drawn back towards the thing. She supposed it was a morbid curiosity. They were so…well, horrible. Spindly arms and fluttering gray flesh all over-topped with scorch mark eyes. WAS it a ghost? Or just the bad feelings about someone’s death, nailed into place with memorabilia? She didn’t actually know, but those things gave her a bad, bad feeling. No one else could see them, as far as she could tell. Under her feet, the vibration of the engine changed slightly. Yay! They were going to get back on the road soon. The rumble ratcheted up another notch and Camelia decided to look at the thing one more time. She turned her head and recoiled in shock. Its face was pressed up against the window, empty sockets with wriggling black holes locked onto her face.

————

 

So, I know this story has some (OK, lots) of issues. But this idea has been bouncing around my noggin for a long time. I wanted to set it down, see what it looked like in words outside my head.
I still like the idea – ghosts nailed into place by loved one’s pain & suffering, marked and held by the little memorial crosses you see everywhere.
I think I am going to play with this idea some more. It may be that it is just too much for a flash or micro fiction piece.