My Story: She Fights Me

From a literary standpoint, blogging is easy. I hadn’t, however, realized just how easy it is until I recently rediscovered what a wicked, grueling thing story-writing can be.

When I write a blog, I do not need to create a well-developed world. I do not need to worry about keeping my facts consistent. The world is my own, it is as it is and I must merely describe it. I do not need to create characters, backstories, or motivations since my readers know the major players already. I do not need to craft a cohesive feel for this world I invite my readers to roam because my tone can changed from post to post as my whim suits. In other words, a blog is but a small piece of a real life, and a blog post is but a small piece of a blog. It is an ever-evolving literary construct that requires nothing more than occasional tending to continue its flow.

For instance, I could, if the mood struck me, make a blog post of two words: “Norah crawled.” (Note: this is not true as of the time I write this…merely an example) You, my loyal reader, would know exactly who Norah is and you would understand the context within which the described action takes place. Such a post would be well-received, I wager. The blog would get excited comments congratulating my daughter on her new ability and I would have elicited these emotional responses with no more effort or time than it took to type 12 letters, one space and a period. “All too easy,” some might be tempted to remark.

However, the story is a relentless and contradictory taskmaster. Like its cousin the dream, it wants nothing more than to drift through your consciousness, to inspire you for a moment, and then fade away leaving only a vague sense that it was beautiful. It must be coaxed from the firmament and breathed life with imagination. It must be tended and pruned until vague beauty is replaced by details. And once it has been convinced to take up reluctant residence in your mind, you must then begin the arduous task of pushing and begging and cursing while you attempt to force it into words.

And make no mistake, the story loathes words. “I am a luminous thing!” shrieks the story as it blinds your inner eye with its radiance. “I am fluid and ethereal,” it whispers as it retreats to the recesses of your psyche. It glares at the rigid confines of the unyielding text as a caged tiger does the bars of its cage as it pacing back and forth with confusion and rage. The story understands that words cannot capture the real essence of its storyness. They can only feebly attempt to describe it.

In short…my story: she fights me.

However, I am not ready to concede this battle and limp back to the safety of my blog. Because even though the words are clumsy tools for the delicate art of describing the indescribable, there exists the possibility of getting…close enough. You see, the words are but a portrait of the story, not the story itself. So my task is not to fully capture the story in words. I need only for my crude representation to display some small element of that original figment. If I can do even that, the story in all its dreamlike perfection may take hold and spring to life in some reader’s mind. It may differ from the story that dwelt in my mind, but it will be just as ethereal and just as beautiful. Then I will have done something worth all the effort.

My challenge, therefore, is to approximate this transient splendor with mere marks on a pag. It’s grueling work, but writers through the ages have given a road map. Alliteration and tone. Symbolism and metaphor. Eloquence. Word structures that elevate these crude scribbles to something more; something worthy of touching the magnificent.

Yes…my story: she fights me. For though she is exquisite in my mind, her word form portrait is currently the equivalent of a half-finished drawing by a pre-schooler, some hunk of purple Cranium modeling clay that was supposed to be the Eiffel Tower…or maybe a skateboard…it’s hard to tell. The good news, however, is that I’m still enjoying the struggle. The thrill of the fight pumps adrenaline through my weary veins as I continue to grapple with the wily story. I am remembering why I used to spend my childhood free time dreaming and scribbling. My story: she fights me…but she is teaching me with every blow.

Patience my loyal readers, my story: she will come.