Birth of a Story

Some stories just need to be told. They simmer and fester inside the writer’s brain until they begin coming out in of every pour in the skin, every medium of the psyche. Soon, even dreams are filled with images of the story. The daytime hours can accomplish nothing, because the story is there. The story haunts the very recesses of the writer’s mind, tugging and pulling, asking, no, begging to be let out.

When the story first began to take form, it was merely an infant, a fetus in the writer’s brain. Any attempt to give birth to the story at this state would have been a blatant abortion or premature birth. No good can come of this kind of delivery.

But then, one day, before the writer ever even notices it, the story has grown so much that it must soon immerge. It won’t wait any longer. Despite all of the pressing activities and events of life, the story will not wait. A story really is a very selfish thing. It must have its way, and have its way it will. Who is to stop it or stand in its way?

Not me.

Birth of a Story

Some stories just need to be told. They simmer and fester inside the writer’s brain until they begin coming out in of every pour in the skin, every medium of the psyche. Soon, even dreams are filled with images of the story. The daytime hours can accomplish nothing, because the story is there. The story haunts the very recesses of the writer’s mind, tugging and pulling, asking, no, begging to be let out.

When the story first began to take form, it was merely an infant, a fetus in the writer’s brain. Any attempt to give birth to the story at this state would have been a blatant abortion or premature birth. No good can come of this kind of delivery.

But then, one day, before the writer ever even notices it, the story has grown so much that it must soon immerge. It won’t wait any longer. Despite all of the pressing activities and events of life, the story will not wait. A story really is a very selfish thing. It must have its way, and have its way it will. Who is to stop it or stand in its way?

Not me.

Red Sky at Night

A storm settles over Virginia Beach as the sky turns red in the evening. The sky is often red here at night. I cannot tell if it is from the ever-approaching storms that seem to hover over this nautical city, or if it is simply because the lights of the metropolis are so bright. I’ve never seen the stars here. I don’t think they exist here. Clouds. That is all I see in the sky at night: clouds that seem to reflect the redness.

I did something new tonight. I went to a movie by myself. I’ve never done that before. I’ve either reached a new level of pathetic or I’m getting braver. Brave. That was the name of the movie I went to see. It wasn’t exactly what I had expected. Too many bears. Even so, I cried in the theatre. It made me miss my mom. Those darn Pixar movies generally have a way of getting to me.

When I came out of the movie, the wind blew my hair around. I felt like the red-headed girl in the movie with the crazy curls. That was when I noticed the red sky. Leaves blew across the parking lot and the road. I’m pretty sure at one point I saw a tumbleweed cross my path. The storm is coming. It storms so much here.

I’m trying to find a point to this post. I don’t think there is one. Does there always have to be a point, a thesis? Does everything need to be wrapped up neatly in a nice big pink bow like the ones on top of the shiny new Hondas in car commercials? I think not. So for tonight I leave you with storms, red skies, and auburn haired girls who accidentally turn their mothers into bears. Oops! Did I just give away the ending? Sorry. I’ll go now…