“Tell your story.” That’s what Medium’s template says. If only I knew my stories better. They seem so … out of reach.
Snippets of writing ideas go wherever I go, but always they keep their distance. Are they following me? Am I following them? I’m not sure.
Pinning them down is like trying to fish a bar of soap out of a bathtub. Just when I think I’ve got one, it slips right out of my hands.
They travel with me to work, but not as passengers in my minivan. Nope. They go zooming past me in my dream car. They slow down to let me catch back up. They take sharp turns, just to see if I’ll follow. And I do. I always do. Then they go speeding by again. Sometimes they wave at me; other times, they give me the finger.
While I work, they chitchat outside my office, sharing their own stories with one another. The murder mystery based in my mom’s hometown thinks dirt roads will be more apropos than paved ones. The historical novella wants to expand into a full novel, or maybe even to shoot for tome length. And hey, did you know the idea for a children’s story I’ve had in my head for years just had another birthday and is now old enough to drink?
As I work, I strain to hear. I think they’re waiting on my shift to end, for me to clock out, to sit down with them, ask them questions, get to know them backward and forward…