
I feel that way about words. I have so many words to write. In the pages of my journal, in this blog, in my scripts. So many things to say, describe, express. The words dance through my brain, across my tongue, and into my pen.
I don’t think of myself as a storyteller. At least, not yet. I never have stories for The Moth StorySLAMs. I’m not that girl with stories of all the cool and amazing experiences from my youth. I have no story about jumping out of a tree at Old Mill Pond or sleepwalking in Walla Walla, Washington. I have one good one about being left alone in the Nevada desert and communing with nature, but even that story is a bit internal. Nothing compared to Ed Gavagan’s story of being stabbed and left for dead.

They’re always there for me, my words. Dependable and abundant. I thank them for the gift of their existence. Because of them, I’ll always have something to say.
In my opinion, the most beautiful writing is when a simple story is well told...draping those stories, however routine they are compared to the James Gray-esque fabrications of most "look-at-me" writers, with luxurious words is your gift and I am thankful that you see fit to share it with us.
ReplyDeleteThank you Lindsey! That is infinitely kind!
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