story telling.

So recently I had this idea of writing a novella of sorts, not quite a novel (wow - that would be hard) but longer than the prose and short little snippets I usually write. Now, I did not realize how big of a challenge it is to write a story. Not because of the actual writing, as I write almost every day. But because of the "let's think of a plot" thing. It is hard. People sometimes say draw upon your own experiences. But I feel like I have ruminated and contemplated my own experience to such levels that they no longer have the same poignancy, and actually end up sounding inorganic when written down, so rehearsed. I could tell a story about a little girl, like me, and what mischiefs she did - only they sound trite and boring when I write it down. Fondest memories turn into a haze of mediocrity. So then, I thought, why not write about experiences I wished I had, or was glad I didn't. But they sound over dramatic and over the top. Too much.

The only thing I know to write about (or at least write adequately about) is emotion. I could come up with a  boatload of similes and metaphors, and things to compare this feeling to the sound of thunder or the hint of rain in the air. But, you can't write a story without a plot, a climax, a lesson... and in the end, my writing ends up being about the present. I'm so wrapped up in a moment that I can't seem to string together moments, in a fluid chain of experiences that form a lasting story.

For now, I will keep brainstorming. Maybe one day something will click. Maybe this is why some great authors only write one book. They only find one story worthy enough to tell.

storyteller.

you write myths like oedipus
curling imagery like cigarette smoke
in between parchment lines of
tales of royalty and folk.
rather be blind and borrow,
eyes than be possessed by greed.

and you would gladly throw,

pearls and diamonds and rubies

shining like a knight's armor,

up and up into the moving sky,

and let the cloud swallow up

the worthless jewels that fly by.

for you, the sky's sun melts
the lonely wind, so that it
may see the stories spinning
from your lonely little lips
for you, the moon hides
behind the whispered prayer
so that it may over hear
the words you long to sing.
and in the dim and dirty sea,
the urchin waits patiently for thee
to flow towards the waves like silk
upon a maiden's graceful back.
these tales like jewels upon your crown
carefully adorned like the most
precious of all known wealths
when all other wealth does drown.

but you, such giving you,
you place these stories on your skin
and let the earth bury you in,
you turn into water, fire, air,
the ground beneath and over there,

feel the cling of rocks and clay

form the curves of your bones, may

grass so green grow into your eyes

and flowers spout from your lips.

and soon all the tales you tell,
are free for all in the form of
a most perfect wishing well.

a man.

a man looks at his wife and thinks, i want to write harmonies about you. i want to strum the stiff strings of a guitar into submission, into a soft croon of all that makes you, you. i want to make a rhythm like the sound of your heart beat when you tell me you love me. i want to write lyrics floating on the edges of a blue jay's wings, soaring through the sky, eclipsing on the sun. let it emanate, glow, like the sweet taste of dew drops on honeysuckle, savored on the tongue like the raspberries that stain your hand. let them entangle like vines on an old schoolhouse, mystify like fog in the morning. so distinct, like the whorls and swirls of her fingerprints, delicate and beautiful when i hold them in my own. i want the sound to echo like the rumbling thunder of a humid summer storm, make you feel the song in your bones like the distinct chill when you're running running in the rain. i want the words to enrapture you, oh my oh my, like lightning striking you. a man looks at his wife, and thinks. if only, if only i could. for now, i shall hold your hand and tell you i love you. i hope that is enough.