Stories are my life. My life is stories. They are, indeed, what lives are made of... really. Even a plant’s! Or rock’s! Everyone and everything has stories. If only we could know them...
I love to share stories. Both mine and those I hear. I just prefer not to do so directly from my mouth. Why?
My words, as they flow from the tips of my fingers onto the digital page flow like lovely water. Similar to the various ways water flows in many ways on the surface of our lovely earth.
But try to speak them and the flow is hampered. Somewhat similar to a dam forming at my teeth… and the words to form the stories in my mind and heart… they get stuck. The flow stops and the lake forms… not a natural lake, but the forced kind... the man-made kind. And I feel stuck. The stories don’t mean exactly what I meant them to mean when I speak them. So, I usually don’t speak my stories. It’s so much nicer to believe that the story is as I meant it to be when I write it.
Of course, there is the reality that any reader will bring their own garbage to interpretation of my tale. And so, perhaps my meaning is just as mangled as a result.
But at least, I know that the words were just right when I left it!