A story teller needs someone to listen. A story writer needs someone to read. I , in particular am not going to write stories, print them out and stick them in a drawer.
I started telling my stories when Facebook asked me What’s New? I happened to have the Grew Up In Manchester page open when I answered that question.
I got barraged with comments early on telling me that I should write a book. I even got comments that I shouldn’t be giving this stuff away for free. It’s not about the money. I don’t need to be famous. I don’t need to be any one’s favorite author. If that happens? It is a glorious perk to something I do for other reasons.
One person read one of my stories and asked me if I was a writer. I stared at that comment for many minutes before I answered. Because if you comment and ask me a question I will always try to find the time to answer.
Am I a writer? I answered “Only when I’m writing.” I wasn’t trying to be a wise ass. I was trying to answer honestly. I am many things besides being a writer. I was happy to get a happy face in return.
I write my stories of growing up in Manchester, Ct. with an audience already in place. Facebook has a page with people that grew up in the same town as I did. We shared the same streets and the same faces. Though, even if you think you recognize a person in my stories you’ll never be sure. I change names or refuse to name a character at all.
I’ve talked a lot about writing with my own personal friends in the past month. They are astounded at how far back my memory goes. Yes, I really am remembering these things as they happened to me. I don’t need to embellish. People are wonderfully strange and different and I remember them. I remember smells and noises. Hearing or smelling the same thing will make me remember to way back when.
First and foremost? A storyteller is not someone that talks all the time. A story teller has been asking you questions. They have been listening. They store things away. So, while I can entertain at a party; I am also the one that listens to you. I am the one asking “And, then what happened?” I will not steal your stories as they are your own. But, I will make you remember.
The story ideas come faster than I can write them down. Some of my readers despair when I only write two a day. I have a life beyond this computer. I have chores to do and my men to feed.
I thank goodness my cat gets fed right near the computer. She may have starved by now if I didn’t see her sweet little face looking up at me every afternoon while I type away.
I’ve known how to tell a story my whole life. I come from a family of story tellers. As a little girl I might meander around a story and even lose my way. I quickly learned to read a listener’s face. I knew when I was losing them. I knew when I had them.
I know the nugget of gold that hides in my story. I can lead you right to it. Or, I will chose to hide it so that you are surprised by the path that I lead you down.
That comes to me through a lot of natural talent I suppose. It also comes to me through years of writing classes.
I found my voice early on. I just needed to discover the stories I wanted to tell. I’ve lived long enough that my childhood devoid of technology has become the good old days. My memories mirror yours or they are the times that you wish you had lived.
I had lovely people in my life. My parents were superbly gifted at parenting. My readers wish they had known them. You didn’t. But, do not despair. Through my stories you will know them better and better every day.
I had adventures that mirrored your own. You now realize when you read a story that so closely resembles your own that it was special. The greatest gift so far in writing is that I stir up your memories. I make you remember the day that happened to you. Who was there. And how it turned out.
I’m sorry when I make you cry. But, if you want me to make you laugh? I am going to make you cry sometimes. Because, that is life. That is what I’m writing about. I’m writing about my life.
These stories get composed in my head. So, the day I wrote about my father dying? I was in the grocery store finding an aisle where I could have a good cry. Because, when I write ….the memory of that day is right in my face. The pictures are right behind my eye lids.
I will tell a funny story. If I’m describing my brother having a laughing fit on the living room floor I am laughing so hard I can hardly see the computer monitor. I relive them as I tell them.
And, there you have it. The reason I write these stories.
I get many comments that when you read my story you can smell the air. You can see the room. If you go back and read it again? I am hardly giving you any description. The room you are picturing in your mind is one that I have never seen. It is your room A face that you can see as clear as a bell? Is a stranger to me. Again, I find it glorious that my memory becomes your own.
We could have been sisters. We could have been friends. You know the streets I walked down. You sat in the same pews in the same church. You ran through the same hallways in the same schools as I did. We wish we had known each other way back then.
We can know each other now.
growinguponcolumbusstreet 