To tell a story successfully, one must be able to translate emotion, color, the very scents lingering on the air a particular time of day—one must have a story that contains emotion, color, and the very scents lingering on the air a particular time of day. Does the imagination record real life experiences? Of course it does. Accurately? Who’s to say, really. Accuracy is not always relevant. Relevance is relevant.
Such a dilemma of accuracy is not mine. No, that’s not a problem I have had to wrestle with, but instead, the problem of emotion is at the center of why I cannot seem to complete a story. Much less be left to ponder its accuracy.
Personal hardship, personal pain… I have no ability to quantify or qualify. Extraordinary jubilation, true, spontaneous adventure that leads to tragedy or euphoria… these things I am without. I lack.
I lack the most authentic ingredients for successful storytelling. Where is my emotion? Where is my relevance?
I do not lack experience—who could live forty-four years and lack such a thing? But, what of my experience? What makes it notable, worthy of delicious adjectives, of readership, of the effort to even write with hopes of potential readership?
How would it be possible, or even plausible, to translate a lifetime of confusion, doubt, and mediocre tragedy, vanilla love affairs and minimum wage into stories? I am neither scandalous, nor saintly; I am no genius ravaged by unnamable anguish. I am, at times, wholly unobservant, lost, and, often, too dissatisfied to consider savoring anything at all. I am sorely lacking vision of a reliable future.
Why then, am I plagued with the need to write stories? Do I suffer potential talent beleaguered by self-doubt and a poor support system? Is there some yet-uncategorized or lesser known psychological barrier that disallows me the opportunity to do the very thing for which my soul yearns? And if either, or any, diagnosis could be confirmed… How pathetic is that?
Should it ever be proven that wishes materialize into fact, would I long for demons chasing me into dystopian lands where full-color characters line up, begging to be mine? Would I list a long list of wishes that included: Master of Dialogue, Master of Poetics, Master of Romantic Literature, Master of Regional Literature? Would I wish for golden screenplays and my name bright white against the black of scrolling Hollywood credits? Would I wish for just one dynamic heroine who set the definition of modern feminism on its cute, intelligent ear?
Would I be energetic and determined enough to wish heartily for the newest fad in form and style? Would I wish for a prolific career? Champagne, fame, and an early death? Would I be so pretentious as to wish for the Nobel Prize?