Worth Writing

Last night I had a dream that I had to cross a dark water guarded by a crocodile.  All I had to do to cross safely was make up a story, even a long sturdy sentence would do to see me across the dark water at the narrowest stretch.  The words, you see, were magic.  Each word fell down and became a strong safe step to carry me forward on my way, every paragraph a whole portage, every story an entire day’s passage. 

But I couldn’t do it.  Swinging above the water with the croc below snapping at me I would get out a few words of a sentence and then the solid steps would fall into the water and the croc would leap up at me as I swung back to the starting shore.  Again and again and again I tried, though I knew from the beginning if it was words that were what I needed to fuel my passage I was done for before I started, for words have always been the missing treasure in my trove. 

Years past I had so many stories to tell, by jeez!!!  They was comin’ outta ev’rywhere!!!  Alright now.  Put yer hand up if ya heard the East Coast Canadian in me thar, b’y.  I’ve no idea where the gators and crocodiles in my dreams come from, but they’ve always been around to tell me something important.  They tell me when I’m afraid, deep down afraid of losing someone or something, or even some way of living. 

Last night’s dream was about my distress over losing my stories.  I was about 40,000 words into a book when the well of ‘wordage’ dried up completely.  That is a VERY distressful occurrance.  I finally had to put the whole project away for the time being since nothing whatever would get the flow of words going again.  Writers need to put things aside sometimes, but this time it was something I can’t afford to leave unfinished.  It’s a tale too important not to tell. 

Gail Kavanaugh at www.gailkav.wordpress.com is doing a beautiful job of what I’m doing a terrible job - no - what I’m actually not doing any job of doing.  She’s respecting the fact that the butcher, the baker, and the candlestickmaker all likely had lives filled with stories of the sort of humanness that would keep more than a few of us entranced for quite some time. 

I am a stubborn-minded writer who can’t get it into her head that her stories aren’t supposed to begin with “once upon a time”; they all naturally begin with “Last night I had a dream…”

Steph