So, full disclosure, this was not the post that I was planning to write. I had originally planned to tell a story about a weird little place I stumbled across while out driving, but something happened after the fact, and now I am *really* not comfortable doing so.
Instead, I’m going to write about what it is that I *do* in my life, and what I’m trying to do here, because it’s a major part of how I want to make a living.
There are a couple of things that you need to know about me:
One, is that I have always been the sort of person who pokes into the corners of shops and picks the path less traveled, because that’s where the interesting things most often are, forgotten or overlooked and waiting. I’m the person who goes into the ragged old antique shop, looking for the magic object or the dusty trail of a story tucked up on a shelf, waiting for someone to find it. I love the liminal spaces, because that’s the place where magic seeps into the mundane world and makes Life something…more… Like Alice going down the rabbit hole, or Dorothy opening the door and going from dull greys and into a world of vibrant greens.
Two, is that I have *always* been a storyteller, for as long as I’ve been alive. As a toddler, before I could even speak clearly, I used to take my stuffed animals and arrange them in a semi-circle around me under the kitchen table (apparently even then, I knew that liminal spaces and seeing the world from unusual angles was important), and tell stories to them, and to the cats and dog that would join us.
I stopped telling stories for a very long time. I stopped writing them. For a time, I even stopped thinking them. So many people had stolen my stories and told me so many reasons that I was not allowed to be what I am, that I eventually believed them, and locked my heart in a lead-lined box, sealed with wax from poison fruit and the ashes of old, dead gods, and hid it away.
I am taking my heart out of that damned box, and putting it back in my chest, where it belongs.
What does this mean? This means that I am going to be telling stories again. I am going to be looking in the shadows and poking into the corners and I will be telling the stories of the magic that I uncover in those places, so that other people can see them, too. Sometimes that means that what had been a fairly uneventful drive across the state becomes a narrative of monsters and fairy rings and haunted bridges and narrow escapes from the clutches of cursed carnival graveyards, because these are the stories that I tell in my head as I drive down the road and look for the places that have the bones of stories scattered among them.
One thing that I am struggling to figure out is whether I should have some kind of a disclaimer or something when I go off the proverbial road (because sometimes I am just telling the story of the trip as it actually happened), or not, because the thing is I live in a world where magic is hidden in the mundane, and I want other people to see a world that still has magic in it, instead of just the daily slog of going to work, paying bills, and living in shades of dust and grey. I want the colors to seep in and I don’t want to have to put up signs that mark each blurring of the trail, but I also don’t want to have to deal with people taking things as fact that were figment, and vice versa, because every time I have to go “that…that wasn’t real…I embellished that a bit because the reality was boring/somewhat creepy and so I spun it slightly because it made a better story” it loses it’s magic. I don’t want to have to unweave the story and break the spell before it’s even cast.
(I don’t mind the reverse on that, though, because “Yeah, no…that? That actually did happen as described. I didn’t spin that” doesn’t remove magic, it adds to it, because the world honestly is way weirder than people give it credit for.)
I dunno. What are your thoughts?