What is she looking at? What is she thinking? Definitely a story there, I just haven’t written it yet.
That’s what The Tempest has been about for all these years, a place where I could tell stories of one kind or another. Its always been a part of my DNA, this love of stories. My mother could spin a yarn at the drop of a hat. Mom’s stories always had at least some relationship with the truth, but the best parts were the embellishments. I might not have always paid attention during Dad’s sermons, but whenever he started using an illustration from his life I would hang on every word. During the last couple of years of his life I had a front row seat for a treasure trove of stories he suddenly felt compelled to share before he died.
Stories are our way of trying to make sense of the world. They attempt an explanation for our existence, an answer to to the big why. When I was a child it was nursery rhymes and Doctor Seuss. The great richness of Bible stories were read and reread. Eventually I was introduced to the short stories of Ernest Hemingway and Edgar Allen Poe, and finally the plays of William Shakespeare where I discovered that stories were art. I’ve never recovered.
Then, there’s this guy…
This is a piece of cheap pottery I had when I was a kid. I can’t for the life of me remember where I got the thing or who gave it to me. But it used to sit on my dresser when I was a teenager. For reasons that remain curious, I took it along with me when I moved out of the house after college and it survived into the early years of my marriage. One day around thirty years ago I was going through a rough patch at work and was exhausted after a long day of rejection. About the time I should have been going to bed I glanced at this cheap piece of pottery and felt compelled to take out an empty three ring binder from my briefcase. I picked up a pen and starred at the old man for the longest time. Then I began writing a story. It would over the next several months evolve into the first long form story I had ever attempted to write. A few days ago I was looking for something in the bottom drawer of my nightstand when I found that three ring binder. I opened up the dry and slightly yellowed pages and began to read.
Its fascinating to read something you wrote while a much younger man. I had forgotten much of the story, but as I read, it all began to come back to me. Much of it was sloppy and disjointed but the power of the narrative resonated with me in much the same way it did that first late evening when I began writing it. So, now I have a new project to work on. I’m going to rewrite this thing chapter by chapter hopefully improving it with more mature and experienced prose which hopefully will include more properly constructed sentences! I might even publish the chapters here on The Tempest. If only I could figure out a way to make you guys pay for it!
Should be fun. Story-telling always is.
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