At times, even caustic, grumpy ole’ me can fashion some of the weirdest fantasies. I’m even capable of doing so under pressure of deadline or demand (my NaNoWriMo history is proof enough of that).
Yet commonly, my partner requests I tell her a story on the fly. Not only does the request feel dirty to me as she was one of the reasons I gave up writing some time ago. But my brain freezes up and refuses to produce a single sentence. Not a meager word.
Which gets me to thinking about a favorite quote of mine from a little known movie Finding Forester: Writers write so readers can read. I hate the spotlight. I especially hate speaking, even more so I hate hearing my own voice. Those who know me would say I’m modest and actually love these things. The reason they would say such thing is that I realize what it mean to appear confident. And, I know that the only way a writer succeeds if two things happen. One, the writer must do what all writers fear most WRITE. Second, the writer must then sell themselves. This requires some speaking.
But for one reason or another, my body and soul refuses to enable me an ability to tell stories with my mouth. Then again, if it did, I would likely have been an actor, not a writer.
What of Mark Twain then? Stories are lay all over the place suggesting he told stories to everyone who would listen to him. A remarkable writer. Maybe because he was a storyteller, maybe in spite of it.