March 31st, 2010


Stories Are Everywhere

I love to make up stories. I always have. Always will. Making up stories is such an automatic response for me that I forget it’s not a part of everyone’s human experience. Then something happens and I am reminded just how very differently I experience the world.

As you know, I went to a conference last Thursday and Friday (I can officially tell you how to raise resilient children and I am ethical). Friday morning when I stepped from the shower in the hotel bathroom, the steam had revealed two words and a squiggly line snaking down the mirror. At first I thought about classic ghost stories. That freaked me out. I searched the bathroom and prayed that invisible fingers did not write more words. Then I considered the mirror could be a portal to another world and someone had written the message for me. Someone in the other world needed my help. By the time I had my teeth brushed and my curls tamed into a pony tail, I had created another world with monsters that symbolized psychological struggles and a strong image of a main character. (Yes, I wrote it all down.)

My friend did not even notice the latent writing on the mirror. Go figure.

On the drive back from the conference, a Porshe zipped past us.  A woman with short, spiky blue hair sat next to a well dressed man. I immediately thought she was a faery that had yet to reveal herself to him. I knew she carried very important information that would alter the man’s choices from that day forward. I would have hung with that story idea, but a van drove by and the person in the passenger seat looked like a leprechaun. SO you know I had to come up with a story for that.

I see stories around me multiple times a day. I see an abandoned shoe on the side of the road and wonder if the shoe possesses powers (besides carrying a lethal smell). A few months ago I saw a mailbox standing along a rural road, not a house around, and considered glamour hid the house from human eyes. Then again, maybe the house burned down and the knee high grass hid the wooden remains. What or who caused the fire? The story ideas goes on and on.

SO, I have to ask. Do all you writers out there do the same thing? Do you see stories everywhere you turn?

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