I Write Stories

Stories are not well understood, I think. They are not well understood even by those that write them, sometimes. Or perhaps they understand perfectly, but are ashamed to acknowledge that they are not ultimately the tree that bears the fruit. They are a pail, not its contents. They hide their shame by dissembling when asked about it, and go back to the well in stealth of night.

No, not a well. A derrick. The world and everyone in it yields nothing but noise, a slurry, tailings, clinker, whatever; it’s a barren rock, the surface — not without signposts, no; there are too many signposts, they are over every inch of ground and directions to all of them are in the mouths of every person. But the surface yields nothing. You must drill, and break your bit, and your back, and go fishing in McElligot’s Pool until you find what you are looking for. You cannot make it, only find it. Just recognize it when you see it? Not so simple.

You wander alone with no surety but that no one can help you. It is in the barren places you look, so you do not waste your time sweeping away the seeds left by the cultivators who broadcast over the beaten path. To plant there is to be trampled, anyway.

You go where others do not and you’re a fool for a time. Or forever.