Something About A Story

There’s something about a story. The mysteries hidden between lines, clues given as soon as the first sentence and later revealed in the end. Something about unexpected romance, disaster, relationships. The beauty of a sentence crafted that makes you feel as if you have stepped inside a room to observe the story as it happens. Reading a book is sort of like looking into the Pensieve in Harry Potter. We become part of the story, we can see, taste, touch, hear, feel the characters yet we can not alter the plot. Something about the way a story twists and turns, takes you into dark corners, back alleys, then shoves you back, unexpectedly, into the light. How a mind can ponder what happens next, how one thing relates to another, if the ending will be conclusive or frustrating. There’s something about it.

I have been writing as far back as I can remember. Maybe that’s not true. There was a time when all I had available to me when it came to creative outlets was a backyard with animals and a swing set hand built by Dad. Also, now that I’m remembering, a Barbie house with tons of Barbies to craft my own stories. Before I could read and write, I dreamed of being able to read. I dreamed of the worlds I could be taken too, the escapes I could make. I lived in my own bubble as a child. I created my own songs, my own adventures. I was Pocahontas when we went camping, a famous singer on the farm, a famous anyone really. Before I could write and read, I pretended. I found outlets. I played soccer, took dance lessons, and began piano. But my creativity couldn’t truly be expressed without pen and paper, and later a computer.
I lived in my own world. As I grew up, came into puberty, the real world clashed with my inner world. Inside I was always imagining, always dreaming. Outside I was quiet, a little sassy, a bit anxious. Not quite as smart as my sister, now quite as eccentric as my brother. My inner world was constantly spinning. The outer perplexed me. I didn’t, maybe still don’t know what drives the outer world. I had no problem making friends and keeping many for a long time. I was faithful and willing to be friends with anyone who could help me widen my imagination. The world as I see it is beautiful, vast, filled with the most complex and intriguing nature. People are good, honest, caring. There is no shadow cast by evil. There are only good people, beautiful places, animals made to be companions.

The shadow as I grew up, however, spread over the real world. I heard and witnessed terrible things happen, and the anticipation of what else could happen ripped through my chest, as it does now. There isn’t supposed to be darkness. There isn’t supposed to be death. There isn’t supposed to be sad endings and broken characters. Maybe that’s why I still believe in Jesus in a world constantly ditching him for more exciting heroes. Or no hero at all. Jesus promises to conquer darkness, what better story is there than that?

This feeling of anxiety is a feeling of knowing evil is lurking and it does not belong. But I must live here. I must make my way in the real world. Hence, as an almost 25 year old, this world still does not make sense to me. I am by no means successful in this world. This comes to no surprise to me, but it does cause me much pain. There is a huge disconnect between my inner world and the outer. My skill set should make me successful, or I should say make a lot of money, but my passion calls me away from these things. My inner world pulls me back from reaching for titles and dollar signs and sets me on a path much less successful to the real world. But my innerworld, which dominates me, wants to be proud of me.

I work with children, though I do not believe I would be a great teacher. I make a phenomenal partner in imagination. I do well to help children be themselves, to explore their inner worlds. But I would be no good at preparing children for the real world. No, once again I am expanding my inner world by getting to be part of kids imaginative, not yet clouded views of reality. They teach me to be myself again, to ignore that the real world is very, very present.

I create things. I randomly chose avenues that express the way I feel. I jump from fashion to writing, from music to painting, from poetry to yoga, from singing to dancing, from reading to traveling, from photography to playing an instrument. I pick up the outlet that gets out what I want, what I most need to say. I don’t use an outlet to master, I use it to express.

There’s just something about a story. I tell my stories when I feel they are about to spill out of me, into whatever way they want to take form. There’s something about writing that gets me, that I get. So I write, so I create, so I remain satisfied in this inner world that I have been expanding and decorating since I became flesh. This is a story about me. I’m not sure who my next story will be about.