Story time

I love writing – all communication really. But sometimes it can feel more like a profession than a vocation. So, in the last few months, I joined a local writers’ group who create poetry, short stories, novels-in-progress, developing scripts and memoir

 

Some are published, some not, and some have no interest in publication. However, what the members have in common is a passion for the written word and an unwavering belief in the creative process. And flowing between those two poles like a living current: joy. Returning to a writing group is a little like returning to a well of inspiration. I can’t say it has improved the quality of my output but it has definitely has a positive effect on my well-being.

 

Through our various forms of writing we explore and share common themes: what it is to be human, making sense of the world and our place in it, and the gift of imagination given free rein. It feels like play for grown-ups and if it leads to a published story or a book…that’s just a bonus.

 

A recent house move saw us packing and unpacking dozens of boxes of books. By the time we’re done I’ll have returned 50 crate boxes to the local supermarket. Many of pour books are now considered vintage because we are; one or two are valuable in their own right, and some books may never be read again but remain on their shelves like honoured guests.

 

Within the collection are individual volumes, whose covers that instantly draw me back to a formative time in my life, like a touchstone. Richard Bach’s A Gift of Wings – often read on the ferry to Manhattan as I travelled to my slightly less than legal job in the Big Apple. Irwin Shaw’s God Was Here But He Left Early – a gift that coincided with a pivotal decision in London about which direction my life would take. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes – bought in Coventry when I sneaked off to meet a friend, while working on a data project in the Midlands.

 

Those three examples are all anthologies of a sort, as are we. A collection of the stories we tell others (perhaps with a little editing and the occasional flourish), and the ones we don’t tell because they reveal too much about others or ourselves.

 

When it boils down to it, we are all a collection of stories.

 

I’ve been sifting through my own short stories – the ones for public consumption, I mean. Some feature in anthologies and some are still waiting for the right opportunity. I’ve been thinking about my own anthology for a long time and I already have the cover ready. Who knows, I might finally get around to it in the next few months. We’ve all got a list like that in our heads – the someday list.

 

There’s no call to action here. Not a sales call, anyway. Instead, I want to remind you to find the joy in whatever you’re doing, if at all possible. Or find some joy in something else.

 

And think hard about what you’re carrying through the years – those favourite stories you bring out for friends or strangers, and the ones you tell yourself that shape who you think you are. Remember, all stories are partly fiction. Even the true ones.

 

Lastly, consider this a public information announcement to get on with it. Whatever it is. Because not only is there no time like the present, individual time is a finite commodity. To quote Pete Wylie from Talking Blues [Story of the Blues Part 2]: “…well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to that.”

 

 

 

Coming soon?