Writer, who?

Someone, as of late, has taken to calling me a writer. I’m not sure their right. I had read, not so long ago, As I lay dying by Faulkner. In the about the other section on the back of the book, he wrote that before he ever put pen to paper, he knew he was going to write a tour de force. Which is French for a big deal. I can honestly say, I’ve never done that. I have had my fair share of fantasies about being published and having m work made into a movie. But I have never thought I would write a life-changing book. Who knows if I’ll ever be published.

 

I wrote a novel in college. I stayed up for almost two weeks straight writing 20 pages a day and sleeping about 3 hours a day. When I finished, I was as proud as a newborns father. It was something I made without anyone else. The product of my mind and my labor as I pounded away on the keys that brought it to life. It was mine and mine alone. No one helped me make it, and no one could lay claim to it. That was when I knew, even though it was terrible and I had lived like a hermit for two weeks, that I wanted to have a go at being a professional storyteller.

 

That’s what I’ve always thought of myself. I don’t believe I am some gifted savant, but I know I can tell a great story. I know my gentle southern accent and flair for the dramatics, makes for a great storyteller. It was a gift given to me by my father. He was the greatest storyteller in the world when I was a little boy. He would take me away to the land of cowboys and honky-tonks (small bars with music).  His life always seemed so vivid and filled with adventure when he recounted it to me. A life I felt that I could see through his words. That has always been what I have wanted to be able to do.

 

Hemingway wanted to write one true sentence. All I have ever wanted to do was tell one good story. I want to convince people of another time and another place and convince them if only for a moment or two that they are right there with me. With my blog, I hope to get them into my head so that one day when they read my stories, we can feel it with the same heart. That day, I might feel like a real storyteller.

 

Storytelling reveals meaning without committing the error of defining it.

– Hannah Arendt

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