It's just a story
I read a post today by Judy Bridges, author of Shut Up and Write. She talked about just getting the words on paper. I've been doing more thinking about writing than writing these past two weeks.
Shut up and write is what I need to do.
When I was a kid I looked at my family and decided the things I wanted to inherit from each of them. I wanted my father's sense of humor and I wanted to be a good storyteller like my grandfather. He was a compact, well muscled farmer and all these years later I can remember the thrill of anticipation I shared with my cousins when Granddaddy was going to tell us a story.
When he finally made his way up the stairs we would all pile in around him on one of the feather beds and our excited buzz would go quiet as his deep voice began that slow unfolding of the tale.
We all knew what was coming - that eventually the six of us would rocket out of the bed, squealing and shrieking, an army of tiny feet hitting the icy cold floor. I can hear the rumble of his laughter - the signal that ended the general mayhem, reminding us that we were safe - it was just a story. We would clamber back into the warmth of the bed, squinch our eyes against the rough whisker-kiss goodnight on our cheeks. It would be a while before our pounding hearts and giggles would subside and we could sleep.
I know my grandaddy wasn't thinking about POV or pacing or the deeper motivation of his characters and he certainly wasn't worried that his use of verbs wasn't varied enough. He was just telling a story. A really, really good story.
It's not that I don't want to have art and craft in my writing. I do. But I need to remind myself, it's just a story. Tell it.
Teresa
Shut up and write is what I need to do.
When I was a kid I looked at my family and decided the things I wanted to inherit from each of them. I wanted my father's sense of humor and I wanted to be a good storyteller like my grandfather. He was a compact, well muscled farmer and all these years later I can remember the thrill of anticipation I shared with my cousins when Granddaddy was going to tell us a story.
When he finally made his way up the stairs we would all pile in around him on one of the feather beds and our excited buzz would go quiet as his deep voice began that slow unfolding of the tale.
We all knew what was coming - that eventually the six of us would rocket out of the bed, squealing and shrieking, an army of tiny feet hitting the icy cold floor. I can hear the rumble of his laughter - the signal that ended the general mayhem, reminding us that we were safe - it was just a story. We would clamber back into the warmth of the bed, squinch our eyes against the rough whisker-kiss goodnight on our cheeks. It would be a while before our pounding hearts and giggles would subside and we could sleep.
I know my grandaddy wasn't thinking about POV or pacing or the deeper motivation of his characters and he certainly wasn't worried that his use of verbs wasn't varied enough. He was just telling a story. A really, really good story.
It's not that I don't want to have art and craft in my writing. I do. But I need to remind myself, it's just a story. Tell it.
Teresa
posted by Seven Authors in A Private Conversation at 9:26 AM
2 Comments:
People who tell great stories always seem to have a twinkle in their eyes. Your post is a good reminder that the story is the fun part.
Amy
Oh please don't shut up...but please also write. Like you I sprang from the loins of a storyteller. His name was Victor and he could be hard, but when he was in the midst of a tale everything was softness. Victoria
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