There is nothing like dying of thirst to appreciate a simple glass of water.
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It is the moment I breathe for the first time that I appreciate what I otherwise do every moment of every day.
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Something within me had come to rest – had actually been at rest even while I wrote.
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Writing a story takes time, time that grants me the opportunity to feel the effect of my words as I lay them out one beside the other.
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Sometimes as writers we simply don’t trust our audience to get just how big a deal something is.
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The news does not cover endings, only middles.
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But before I could tell a new story, I spent several years literally reminding to myself, on the page or on long walks, that people wanted to be happy.
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Storytelling has reminded me how personal my suffering truly is.
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The arrows were all as harmless and transparent as thoughts.
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It is the pain of doubting that tells me I needn’t doubt.
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The Road to Hell is paved less with good intentions and more with a glorification of suffering, holding onto ours as if it’s what makes us who we are.
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As storyteller, I mustn’t become seduced by problems. Just because they are the fuel for my stories, and just because they are easier to see, does not mean they are the reason I am telling stories.
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