Twelve years of telling stories
A few weeks ago, I ran into a friend at an event. After saying hello to her, I said, “I have a story to tell you.” She smiled and responded, “Of course you do. You always do.”
That’s true. I have lots of them—and I like to tell stories.
In 2016, I was with a colleague at a political rally. We each wrote about the event. When I read hers, I was amazed at how she could cleverly craft words and phrases together. I told her I was jealous of her talent. She said, “We all have different skills. I may be better at doing that, but you’re more gifted at the way you tell a story. It’s almost as if you’re talking to someone—and usually funny, too.”
I realized she was correct. We all have a niche about how we write and/or communicate. I’m never going to be the wordsmith my friend was, but that’s okay.
What a difference a year makes. Last year, I was almost totally burned out by this format. I was looking forward to spreading my wings and trying something new. However, new doesn’t mean better. I realized that the first time I sat down to write a book.
It only took about a week to figure out that I didn’t want to sit at my desk for hours at a time to write a couple of thousand words. It didn’t take that long, but I didn’t want to give up after a few minutes. This format fits me better. It’s more of my style. It only took me twelve years and a day to figure that out.
Today is the start of year thirteen. I don’t think I’m not going to be done here any time soon. I still have a lot more stories to tell—and I still like to tell stories.