When Stories Came Easily
I would like to write. I would like to write a book. But it seems I have nothing in me worth typing out. What a shame. When I was young, I had many stories, and I told them easily then. They came without effort, and I told them to anyone who would listen.
Back then, the stories seemed worthy of telling. Now, not so much. Perhaps memory is cheating me of the details that once made them light up. I remember being told I was a good storyteller, that my stories were interesting, exciting, and often funny—stories worth telling. I remember believing it.
So what happened?
Maybe the stories didn’t disappear. Maybe they grew quieter, harder to hear over everything learned since. I used to speak without measuring, without wondering whether a moment deserved to last. I told things as they came to me. Now I hesitate, listening for something that once arrived uninvited.