The story that wrote itself

For months now I have been ignoring a story that has been nagging at me to write it. There were countless reasons why I ignored it… not political enough, not theoretical enough… About a month ago, after listening to the Elizabeth Gilbert TED Talk I finally surrendered to the story (I loved Gilbert’s description of the poet Ruth Stone being chased by her poetry across the fields). This story most definitely has a life of its own, for it pounced out of me and occupied the pages on my screen with such intention and will. What was it that Gilbert was saying about being a conduit for a creative force…? I am not insinuating that this story will be a bestseller or even published, for me it is inconsequential. The thing that I have been relishing ever since I let the story go, is the process of writing the story, or should I say, letting the story write itself. It is my being with the story which I want to write about and make sense of.

Writing was an opportunity to sit with, be with and occupy the story… the places, the people, the moonrises and the heat of the day. Sitting down to write is usually a dualistic experience for me. There is me, then there is the story on the computer screen. Yes the story originates from me, but there is some kind of disconnect that I usually cannot seem to reconcile. For this story, it was as though I had crawled through the lines on the screen, only to emerge in country. I was feeling story as place. It had the hallmarks of the seductive escapism I experience when reading good literature or watching a film. The other world, out there, seemed less appealing to occupy. So I wonder, will I feel another story tugging at my sleeve, asking me to pen it? Or am I a one story pony??? 

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