Stubborn story

Take the whole storm, with every lightning strike and every clap and reverberation of thunder that had an echo in your own sternum, scoop up every drop of rain and breathe in every shift in the air currents ... and then pour all of that through a funnel and onto a canvas to paint the storm.

That is what it feels like to try to write a story.

Hold your fragile new baby in your arms, up close to your face where you can smell him, and know in your being that his being is as strong as it needs to be for his life of temporary dependence on you, and that all of your love and tenderness and crushing sense of helplessness in the face of his frailty will be only so much food and water to him as he outgrows you.

That is what it feels like to want to be writing a story.

Go again into your recurring and disturbing dreams where the classroom full of students will not be quiet, and your little brothers will not leave you alone, and your mother will not listen to the thing that you are saying with all your agonized being. They will not listen. They keep telling you about other things. You cannot get their attention to turn toward your meaning. Wake yourself with the sound of your own voice saying, "Be quiet!"

... damn.

Maybe I should read what I have so far. Maybe I could get a run at it.

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