I love following your story-trail---always so rich, always a little bit (or a whopping lot) thrilling. I felt sadness and joy and wonder. I love that you love open windows even in winter, and owl calls, and looking out into the night. Something about mysteries and losses grabbed on to me tight..."...goodbyes, sorrow, loneliness..." I've come to where I'm not afraid, either. Thank you for this layered picture of your heart.
Thank you for the beautiful tour around the inside of you. What a gift! As a bonus, I actually believe that by keeping your inner window open like your outer one, instead of keeping everything shut down and closed off like so many of us were trained to do in the South, you will still have your mind when you are 103! I loved going there with you, and appreciate your honest invitation.
Some writers are good enough storytellers that the places where their petty little egos peek through the cracks may be passed over without much notice. One senses that they are hoping it will go that way and with most readers it usually will. They are that good with words. I admire and in some cases even adore their writing but am pretty sure that I'd quickly tire of them in person. There would be no hopeful intrigue. Just confirmation and meh.
Others, far rarer in my experience don't quite give a damn if you see what's there behind the fence boards and leaking out between the cracks. Those boards, the ones you can see between are just boards. They may be helping hold the things inside together, but they were not placed there to hide behind or deceive. Some of these storytellers are every bit as gifted with words. Maybe, sometimes... even better.
I root for them and feel hope when I read them, even when it becomes apparent just how loyal they are to the stories they tell. One senses that it would never occur to them to screw over a story in order to hide the truth or make themselves look better.
Either might spend a thousand words telling you about some part of their day, but only one would leave you wondering once again if fear has an energetic scent.
Thank you, Mack. Your stories feel like they're written by a woman who sleeps with her windows open, even in January. I'm ever so grateful.
Writing feels to me like speaking some secret language, not even knowing if it makes sense, just that it’s the only language I have. Bumping into someone willing to listen is a miracle, and a gift~~okay then, I’ll keep saying what I’m here to say. But looking up to realize there are a handful of souls nodding is the amazing part I had no clue existed, like meeting someone’s eyes in a crowded room. Thank you for seeing me David.
I love following your story-trail---always so rich, always a little bit (or a whopping lot) thrilling. I felt sadness and joy and wonder. I love that you love open windows even in winter, and owl calls, and looking out into the night. Something about mysteries and losses grabbed on to me tight..."...goodbyes, sorrow, loneliness..." I've come to where I'm not afraid, either. Thank you for this layered picture of your heart.
so glad the mysteries and losses came through Toni, and I’m grateful for your kindred spirit reading my writing.
This is beautiful.
Thank you Logan!
This is so powerful, so poetic and true, I felt it in my bones. What an experience reading it, feeling it.
Michael, your “feeling it” means a great deal to me.
And to me, MacKenzie.
Thank you for the beautiful tour around the inside of you. What a gift! As a bonus, I actually believe that by keeping your inner window open like your outer one, instead of keeping everything shut down and closed off like so many of us were trained to do in the South, you will still have your mind when you are 103! I loved going there with you, and appreciate your honest invitation.
Oteka I love your idea (and truth!) of keeping our inner window open--grateful to have you here.
Some writers are good enough storytellers that the places where their petty little egos peek through the cracks may be passed over without much notice. One senses that they are hoping it will go that way and with most readers it usually will. They are that good with words. I admire and in some cases even adore their writing but am pretty sure that I'd quickly tire of them in person. There would be no hopeful intrigue. Just confirmation and meh.
Others, far rarer in my experience don't quite give a damn if you see what's there behind the fence boards and leaking out between the cracks. Those boards, the ones you can see between are just boards. They may be helping hold the things inside together, but they were not placed there to hide behind or deceive. Some of these storytellers are every bit as gifted with words. Maybe, sometimes... even better.
I root for them and feel hope when I read them, even when it becomes apparent just how loyal they are to the stories they tell. One senses that it would never occur to them to screw over a story in order to hide the truth or make themselves look better.
Either might spend a thousand words telling you about some part of their day, but only one would leave you wondering once again if fear has an energetic scent.
Thank you, Mack. Your stories feel like they're written by a woman who sleeps with her windows open, even in January. I'm ever so grateful.
Writing feels to me like speaking some secret language, not even knowing if it makes sense, just that it’s the only language I have. Bumping into someone willing to listen is a miracle, and a gift~~okay then, I’ll keep saying what I’m here to say. But looking up to realize there are a handful of souls nodding is the amazing part I had no clue existed, like meeting someone’s eyes in a crowded room. Thank you for seeing me David.