When fear and cold make a statue of you in your bed, don’t expect hard-boned and fleshless truth to come running to your aid. What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie.
Life’s an old story. we all know how it ends.
We ourselves, will resurrect the memory in order to savor it and carry it forth into the world. We will fling it at one another for laughs. Distort it. We will toss the story into the air at parties and howl over its ripeness. Degraded as it was, we will degrade it further. Make it more swollen. We shall render it impossibly awful, making of it the mythology of ourselves. A comfort. Proof of the trials we’ve survived.
All stories are true. But some of them never happened.
Energy will go into what you love, and what you love will grow. Go for a walk and watch it bloom.
In the end, we begin.
Until you begin to write, then you will see the beauty of writing.
Making a story from the messy thoughts and half-thoughts in her head, building a world and lives and taking them apart again, fitting the pieces together another way until it feels right, as right as she can make it feel.
I like colorful tales with black beginnings and stormy middles and cloudless blue-sky endings. But any story will do.
My goal is not to have everlasting fame, it is simply to write the stories that are asking me to write them and to share them with the people that want to hear them.