I have a lot of stories.
I have had the misfortune of being turned onto the idea of Magical Realism far too young and then allowing it to taint everything I write after it.
There are days I hate when I can’t look at the news and wonder what isn’t being told. Suddenly I feel like a conspiracist, an outsider, and where the club meets that decides how headlines will break and who will be involved in the ruse.
There are those who will spend their whole life posting just the right things on Facebook, garnering all of the “likes” and doing the minimum required to justify having 600 friends. Every tagged photo the same variation of an arm thrown around the shoulders of another, forced smile, and everything washed out with a too-strong flash – chasing away anything that could be a shadow, a mystery. They will be packaged in the best looking box when everything runs its course.
In a world of two-shoes, there are still forgotten socks. Worn, boxed in by a lovely patent-leather something, peeled off at the end of the day drenched in sweat and stink and the grit of miles walked to be tossed towards the laundry basket in the corner. Just missed, packed into the corner where it will be forgotten for weeks on end, collecting dust-bunnies and dog hair. Its partner, washed clean but disposed of for being a loner.
I could tell this story just right – in the way everyone thinks they want it to be told so they could smile and nod and forget about it. Never worrying about it again because who worries about a nice little story? When writing, there is are the words strung together on the page, and then there is the story being told. Subtext is lost on this tech-driven generation. Apps that get the reaction of “hey, this is pretty cool,” but never “I wonder what this actually means for all of us.”
This is the experience of the individual writer, on the corner, forgetting to be washed clean and worn again. The writer who isn’t after a million loving fans, but the writer who hits publish in order to quiet the noise in their own head.
Not a conversation, not an argument, but a story told.