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Tag: storytelling (page 1 of 4)

Tricks of the tale

I wrote a little story last year. It was about music and its potential power and beauty.

It explored the terrifying notion of how it might feel to exist without music in our world. It was a tender little piece. A few words for a fun little contest. Shot out and carried away on the shimmering wind. But it had magic, for all its lightness and air. It had depth.

“She’ll leave. No warnings. No demands. She’ll just go. And she’ll take the music with her. We’re the forest of the sounds.” 

I wrote it, I think, when I was spending time my dad, just before he started dying. A sad time, but also a time I’ll always treasure. Time we spent singing. And crying from all the joy it gave us.

And, now, I sing to remember what that felt like. But mostly I sing for the love of the song. For the joy of it in my bones.

And tonight I rediscovered that little story of the lost song.

So, I think; really? What did you know, little brain, that you wouldn’t tell me? Or what did you tell me that I couldn’t hear back then? But you saved it for me, I think. I truly do.

When we write fiction we think we can put some sort of partition between our minds, our own selves, and our imagination.

We’re just fooling ourselves. In the most beautiful of ways. We’re always there, even when we think we’re not. Especially when we think we’re not.

Wonderful, isn’t it.

One line

Why do we do what we do? Why do we try?

Some days, I wonder why I write stories. Is it to get published? Yep. Can’t deny that one. Is it to be read and heard, and maybe loved? Oh, yes. But why does it make me ache if I don’t? This yearning for storytelling; it’s not about the endgame. It’s something else. Something deep. Something core to who I am.

I sleep, in hope of dreams. I dream, in hope of ideas. I write, in hope of story.

I write to tell that tale.

And now and then I send a story out there. Sometimes there’s feedback and it’s grand. Sometimes, of course, it’s a ‘no’.

Occasionally, a no is just a silence. A silence you can fill with questions. Is the time not right? What did I miss? Why do I even do this? Why persist? What makes me presume I’m good enough?

These silences don’t make for great days. But it’s part of being a writer. If you can keep pushing through it, you can go on. Some days that’s hard. But, I promise you, if you’re a new writer, this day too: it’s worth it.

On one of those less-great days, I allowed myself to sink into the words of another. This single line grabbed me by the shoulders and held me, breathless. Wouldn’t let go.

‘Their voices mourned every unfulfilled wish, every step they hadn’t taken and every unspoken word.’
– Marianne in The Little Breton Bistro, Nina George

Of course, that moment in Marianne’s life wasn’t the same as mine. I don’t live the same life as her; we’re not on the same journey. But those words? They got me. They dug into my heart and, oh, they burned. I needed them. These words about striving and regret and life. They tell you to not give up. To thrive. To go on.

I couldn’t turn the page. I held her book like a lifeline.

One line, she did this to me with. One line.

That’s why. That’s why you do what you do. To connect to someone and take their breath from their lungs. To shore them up and see them through a day. Or a moment. And not even know it. To just hope that what you write might, one day, do that.

We try because we don’t know what else to do. But more than anything else, we try because we feel the presence of others.

Somewhere out there, there’s someone like you. And they’re waiting for your words.

One day, just once, I want to do that. I want to reach out, like that, and find someone. I want to write those words and set them free. I want to find you and be there for you.

That’s why. I need to do this. I can’t not. And some days it’s hard. Some days it hurts.

So, what else can I do, but try.

Before too long

little girl stares out of a window

stories and words, she sees them everywhere

Okay, so it’s been a while. I don’t normally do blog-absence apology articles, so I won’t. I can’t. Because, damn it, I’m not sorry.

I’m sorry for the sorry state of the world. I’m sorry if you’ve been hanging on an article (but I can’t imagine you have). I’m sorry that this isn’t an eloquent moment to cure what ails us all. But sorry for not having been here? Most certainly not.

See, the thing is, I wrote a book.

It’s not my first foray into long form, but it’s the first time I’ve ever stood up and said, ‘this here? it’s a book’. Said it, felt it, meant.

As of right this second, what I now have is a complete unpublished manuscript. I’ve started pitching and all the hard slog that usually comes at this point. And I’m well into the next book. But, all of that aside, it’s done. My first book. Beginning, middle, end. First draft, second draft, final draft. Darlings killed, darlings slayed. Done.

So. Here I am, feeling exhausted and amazed. Ecstatic and somewhat bewildered. This writing thing is hard. Real hard. You don’t do it only for the potential thrill of getting published. You do it for love. Yes, you want to be heard. To have readers. To be read. What drives me though, what keeps me going, is the desire to tell the story. The love of writing. The love of words.

My writing journey continues. My joy for words is refueled and full of fire. It almost makes me feel guilty. Who knows. Before too long, transmissions might even return to some sort of normal.

The words will be spoken
I know all the action by heart
As the night-time follows day
I’m closing in
Every dog will have his day
Any dog can win

— from Paul Kelly’s “Before Too Long”

Recalling the yabby

beautiful black and white photo of a chef and a giant pot

What’s in the pot?
Stirring image by SMU Central Uni Libraries

The Macquarie’s Australian word for this week is yabby.

Seeing that word gave me an immediate tap into a distinct childhood memory. A good tale, because, like so many good yarns, it’s tinged with a faint hue of horror.

We used to go yabbying as kids. Though that’s not quite the honest truth. It’s more that I used to go running around in the creek or on the railway when my brothers left me behind as they went yabbying.

One day I convinced them to take me along and show me the ropes. I begged. I pleaded. I even promised to behave. And even though I was a little kid, I did behave. It was bewitching to watch. String, catch, net. Squirm. They were catching river bugs! Yabbies, they called them. Beautiful was what I thought.

On the way home I picked out the prettiest, bluest beautifulest one. I named him. Goodness knows what. I only recall that he was now mine. My new pet yabby.

I left him and his mates on the back verandah, swirling around in a sturdy bucket. I didn’t want to leave him, the shining little wonder, but I’d been called inside. Who knows what for. A bath, a tidy up, a telling off? Or something equally ridiculous and unimportant.

When I came back the bucket was empty. I left the backdoor swinging and went through yelling for my Mum. Where was my little mate?

You can guess, can’t you? I couldn’t. I can still remember it. The kitchen. The slow dreadful walk. The big lidded pot, boiling and roiling.

‘Mum? Where’s my yabby?’

She picked me up so I could get a proper look. What a good mum.

I can still hear my screams to this day.

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