I am listening to this tape on decluttering by Cheryl Richardson, about this woman who wanted to clean up place but each time she did so, the stuff came right back. So she put all the clutter in the centre said a prayer to it, and asked why was it refusing to go, what came back to her was somewhere in that pile was a story that she had promised to say, but had forgotten.
In his play Nagamandala, Girish Karnad talks of a story that was trapped within a man, taking the form of beautiful woman and causing discord. The actual story unfolds from there. coming to think of it, the greatest agony, is having an unsaid story within us, and the scariest moment is just after we take a decision to narrate the unsaid story but just before we start. May be a good way is to jump of the cliff and let the parachute open, or let the winds carry us wherever.
Here I am looking through the various starts, various ideas trapped systematically but just frozen in my notebooks, the stories I always wanted to write. I have decided to brush aside reasons that I have used to mask my fear, like house work lack of research or whatever. After all stories need to be told.
The battles that were fought, the wars that were won or lost, the pirates who raided the high seas before the merchants could land at Bhatkal, and then how the pirates became landlubbers, dragons, that ate their foes for breakfast maybe with a nice cup of Lapsang Souchong, all these tales need to be told. They are magic, each listener or reader will experience it differently, with each render they mature and their flavours and fragrances vary, the effect of which is totally unpredictable. From mundane to profound, from profound to divine the listener empowers the story to transform the listener by residing in their soul, it becomes their blood and self purpose. The tale moves them and rives them to know what they might do from what they have learnt from the story. That is the role of any story teller, the gift, to shape… thought beyond what an astrologer would predict. The story teller is the magician.
By the way one could write about anything as long as we have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise and deal with that great dragon that lies within called self-doubt. Between you and me, writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.
As I go through these drafts I find the first mile of the journey is well covered, well even an infant could do it, but none of the stories made it to the finishing line, actually I always wanted a perfect ending, eventually I learnt things albeit the hard way just some poems do not rhyme, some stories do not have a clear beginning, middle and end, for what are stories they are but mirrors we hold up to our fears, it is in our darkness that we create our stories. Life is all about these dark and light cycles, knowing, having to change taking the moments and making the best of it, without knowing what is going to happen next, this ambiguity makes life deliciously adventures and story worth narration.
I think I shall take Barbara Sher’s advice “Start small.
And don’t bother to finish any of it.”
― Barbara Sher, Refuse to Choose!: Use All of Your Interests, Passions, and Hobbies to Create the Life and Career of Your Dreams
Sharing my story — https://plinkyprompt.wordpress.com/2016/08/28/the-vigilant/