Dear M,
Not only do we write about people we dislike (and put them inside our story so that we can murder them) to exorcise the hatred-devil from inside us,
but we also write about people we know - either we know so well that we run a risk of writing passionately and the reader will immediately know who we're talking about or we try to make up stories and wrap our characters around them.
Then there are others who inspire us. I wrote about it in this post. Every day I find someone new who makes me wonder, what might their story be? Everyone has a story, of course. The only difference is that some of those stories are not tragic or comic or breathtaking or intriguing enough for us to want to put it into paper, and for others to read.
I have this habit of writing next to the window. Yesterday this little girl - she must be five or six years old - came out of her house, stood near my window, looked around and assuming that she was alone, began to take off her clothes. I was too astonished to do anything. Her attention was on the door of her house from where her mother or grandmother might emerge at any moment. She was unaware that anyone was watching her. All the other kids of the neighbourhood were at school; I know what they would have done to her, had they seen her. Before I could rise from my seat and guide her slowly back to her house, someone called her and she ran back inside. I have been observing her for a few months now. She does not play with other children. When they are all at school, she goes out and enjoys nature and even screams to her heart's content, and slinks back inside when it is time for the flock to return. She is not invited to birthday parties, because no one remembers her. I don't know what her story is, but I am sure there is one. And the selfish, callous writer is already cooking up a few pages of it.
We can find stories everywhere. There is a young man whom I see a couple of times a week. We don't exchange more than a 'Hi' and sometimes a 'Thank you', or a curt nod or a trace of a smile to acknowledge each other. I am sure he has a story too. Maybe he doesn't but the young man in my pages does.
Not a day passes by without me telling myself, the incident I just witnessed should be included somewhere in my story. Not a day passes by without at least one story making its appearance before my eyes and tempting me.
Love.
*(Image taken from the Internet / Social Media)
Not only do we write about people we dislike (and put them inside our story so that we can murder them) to exorcise the hatred-devil from inside us,
*
but we also write about people we know - either we know so well that we run a risk of writing passionately and the reader will immediately know who we're talking about or we try to make up stories and wrap our characters around them.
Then there are others who inspire us. I wrote about it in this post. Every day I find someone new who makes me wonder, what might their story be? Everyone has a story, of course. The only difference is that some of those stories are not tragic or comic or breathtaking or intriguing enough for us to want to put it into paper, and for others to read.
I have this habit of writing next to the window. Yesterday this little girl - she must be five or six years old - came out of her house, stood near my window, looked around and assuming that she was alone, began to take off her clothes. I was too astonished to do anything. Her attention was on the door of her house from where her mother or grandmother might emerge at any moment. She was unaware that anyone was watching her. All the other kids of the neighbourhood were at school; I know what they would have done to her, had they seen her. Before I could rise from my seat and guide her slowly back to her house, someone called her and she ran back inside. I have been observing her for a few months now. She does not play with other children. When they are all at school, she goes out and enjoys nature and even screams to her heart's content, and slinks back inside when it is time for the flock to return. She is not invited to birthday parties, because no one remembers her. I don't know what her story is, but I am sure there is one. And the selfish, callous writer is already cooking up a few pages of it.
We can find stories everywhere. There is a young man whom I see a couple of times a week. We don't exchange more than a 'Hi' and sometimes a 'Thank you', or a curt nod or a trace of a smile to acknowledge each other. I am sure he has a story too. Maybe he doesn't but the young man in my pages does.
Not a day passes by without me telling myself, the incident I just witnessed should be included somewhere in my story. Not a day passes by without at least one story making its appearance before my eyes and tempting me.
Love.
*(Image taken from the Internet / Social Media)
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