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Writing a story

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There’s one thing I’ve learned.  Don’t look at a blank page and expect a story to just pop into your head.  It almost never works. You’ve got to go fishing, ride a bike, break a sweat, kiss someone, play a game, listen to an old person or watch a child.  Those kind of things bring life to the page. They make people want to read. They make people cry and laugh. They make their hearts race. They let me know that I have something worth writing about.  I know that for sure when I start to cry.

But some days, no matter what I do I’m left blank.  Then other days I have the story in my head and it sprawls across the page in contorted and broken sentences, void of passion, worthless to any sane reader.  On those days, if I’m worth a damn, I throw it away. It’s a crime to tell a good story badly. I’m sure I could have been imprisoned for that a couple of times in the past.  On the other hand if you tell a bad story goodly then that’s a work of art. Preferably, you should tell a great story with a poetic flair. But what do I know? I just struggle to make sense of this world.  I struggle to make sense of me.

On rare occasion the words just come.  They fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.  Piece by piece they link tightly and cover the page.  Patterns develop and eventually a form comes into view, an animal’s head, a tree, a stream, a barn.  When it’s done you can step back and watch the story unfold right before your eyes as you read it then there’s nothing left to do but read it again and find someone to show it to.  

Sometimes it’s passion that pushes the words though your hands and onto the page.  It’s like making love. You feel it. You know what to do without thought, without fear.  You just let it go until there’s nothing left but the love that pushed you in the beginning.  You know when you’re done because you’re empty and at the same time full of something else entirely.

Fear can write a story.  Hate can write a story. Even despair but those things on their own are lame, hopeless and futile.  But imagine fear saved by strength and courage. Now that’s a story. What about hate transformed by understanding and kindness?  That could move mountains. And then there’s despair healed by a selfless act of compassion. I feel tears welling up just considering the possibilities.  

Enough with the tears.  I could write something funny, some odd sequence of events filled with half wits and illogical conclusions.  Of course there would have to be a final twist, some sort of wisdom springing from the midst of stupidity. Yeah, that would make an excellent story.  An idiot opening his mouth and spilling profound wisdom, confounding everyone who had used him for a fool. I could write something like that and laugh all along until the final transformative moment.

I could write a childhood memory.  Everyone relates to those, the wonder, the discovery, the surprise of new experience, the enthusiasm that only a child can exhibit.  

An unusual experience in the great outdoors, the loss of a beloved pet, the kindness of a friend, true love found or true love lost, there are stories all around us, in every moment and every memory.  They’re waiting to be uncovered. They’re waiting to be told.

Or I could just look at the blank page and type whatever comes into my mind.  I could pollish it and try to hook the reader, con him or her into enduring to the end only to find that there was no real point to begin with.  It was just me playing with words and wasting their time while they read a story about nothing at all.

Author's Note

Feel free

Reviews

[Richard Charles]

Thanks for this peek into your struggles with being blocked. I am sure it happens to everyone here. I know it does to me. But then there are the days (as you mention) that a fully realized story pops into your head and gets written very fast - almost as if someone else is writing it and using your hands to do it.

[busterlee]

That's it. Thanks for sharing. It's hard to explain but when it happens it's the most wonderful experience.