Storytelling, it’s a gift, an art, not taught nor acquired but grown. To tell a story is to live the story, to be the characters and feel the events, to hold the strings yourself but give them to your characters when needed. To tell a story is to learn the language of the people – not necessarily in writing, and there are a million ways to write, but in painting, in arts, in simply speaking.
My greatest storyteller is Granny. The greatest story is me.
There is no need for modesty, but there is no need to be arrogant either. We are all our own greatest stories. We live us, and, often, others. We live and breathe the characters we encounter. We hold our own strings and pass them to others when we can’t participate in the play any more. We tell our stories in gossip, in diaries, in blogs, on twitter, in tears while we shower, and in our prayers or hangovers.
We’re walking books, being read and reread, by ourselves and others. I write a lot, though my English hasn’t been particularly getting better, but that doesn’t really matter to me right now. I haven’t read books for long, but that’s another story.
I have a twitter diarrhea, and when I’m not, I am writing elsewhere. I have my note book. I have my iPhone notes. I even have, believe it or not, a secret blog somewhere else where I rant in short bursts about stuff I wouldn’t write about here. I tell stories in photos, while talking, and I make stories while listening to music. I create videos in my head, collages of images or people, with the music. I repeat a song several times until I make the right mental clip for it. And I am sure some of you do that too, or do it in other ways.
My story now is at a standstill – it’s the long stretch of events that don’t make sense in a book. The boring chapters or often the mentally draining chapters you want to get rid of very soon and move on to the new stuff. But you know you cannot skip these chapters because the ending won’t make much of a sense without this subtle built up. Like a cook describing to you what are the ingredients and then sitting there making you wonder what he will end up cooking.
Though, if I were you, I will take those and make my own recipes. There is a finite amount of ingredients, anyway. Lots of stories to tell.