I called a friend out of the blue today. I updated her on the weirdness that is my life. People showing up, others moving away, the strange, the wild, the fantastical. Every one, a true story, replayed for my friend.
She commented, you always have so much going on.
I reflected, not by choice. But, doesn’t she? doesn’t everyone?
Maybe the way we talk about our lives is the way we write stories.
Her stories are gentle, calm, always well paced. Her imagination is vast, but her writing is serene, as if you were reading a swan.
My stories are varied. One day I’m writing about someone finding a gold tooth and the next I’m writing about Poe’s hauntings. Mine work at different paces. They surf from one side of the galaxy to the next. My readers are sometimes intrigued, sometimes put off. They like the story of a girl falling in love with a dog, but not the story of a girl talking to mirrors.
I guess this is me. There’s a lot going on. Remember what they used to say about the quiet ones? Still waters run deep. I’m not very quiet, not very still. I am the river that rushes around the corner and is calmed by the expanse. In some places, I’m deep enough to fall in and drown and, in others, I’m skimming over rocks, just slick enough to pass.
I can’t contain it. I can’t limit it. I can’t label it. And I won’t.