My Story

This story begins as does all stories, at the beginning. It then bulks up in the middle and thereabouts and, finally, tapers off at the other end.

It’s a story about how hard it is to write stories. Take, for example, my wanting to write a story about fog. I know nothing about fog other than it can appear from time to time like a huge blanket over everything under the sky. This means that, to write accurately about fog, I’d have to look up and, in greater depth, research all the things about fog there is to know. Well, not every thing since I would have it on good authority were I to ask, that there are too many things about fog for me to include in an interesting average length story.

Or I could write about a new pair of shoes, perhaps, that I bought on Amazon. It may seem simple but there are so many properties to cover: size of shoes, width of shoes, color, sandals or loafers, could be boots; do I need to wear a metatarsal arch support when wearing these shoes(?).

I realize I need to pick one thing about which to write. Maybe correct grammar? It is my Achilles heel (oh, we’re back to shoes). I become unbearable when I see in written form something with bits and pieces of nouns and participles, verbs and subjects sticking out willy nilly from the page or screen or what have you. What you have then, in my opinion, is a dearth of proper tutelage in some education systems. This, and my love of words – the more obscure the better – was likely the prime directive behind my ending up as an editor and purveyor of written communication.

But this story is not about me. In fact, I’ve still to settle on just the topic about which I shall opine or, if fiction be my wont, invent. It would be easier to write fiction, I think, though I’m not sure if that’s true.

I’d need a subject for this fiction I might write. A name of an object or topic. Or, if I'm moved to write about a character I could, ostensibly, be here all day typing endlessly in pursuit of the most compelling story line. In that case the story, though unwritten, might be all about me and my penchant for indecision. Isn’t that correct? Again, I’m not sure.

Indeed, I could write about myself (non-fiction) doing unheard of, fantastical things (hence fiction) but, given my indecision, I wouldn’t know when to stop, and the story could drag on until I reach the end of my days, and funereal tales may be tenable but they’re not, to coin an anagram, ‘real fun(e)’. Were the story about me, in fictitious format, I could style myself in any way I choose. I could be heroic or villainous, pleasant or dour, given to great quests and adventures or riding high on celebrity and fame.

Were it to be a non-fictional story about me, it would be none of those things. There are so many fewer avenues to explore if I have to tell the truth. Most fictitious characters lead infinitely more exciting lives than I. (You may wonder if that shouldn’t be ‘than me’. This is quite the bugaboo when it comes to establishing correct grammatical form. Here’s how I’d suss it out: Were I to write, ‘more exciting lives than do ‘me’, I’m sure we can agree that that approach is decidedly incorrect, whereas ‘more exciting lives than do ‘I’', seems to sound right. Full disclosure: I don’t really know, but that’s what I’m sticking with (damn, ‘with’ shouldn’t be dangling like that).

I see I’ve passed the 600 word count and could interrupt my stream of consciousness dithering, but that’s rarely something I do. I have saved numerous text messages and emails, some addressed to complete strangers, that attest to this.

I suppose I’ve found my topic and it is, my correspondents would assuredly agree, my ‘stream of consciousness’ writing style.

In conclusion, while I don’t always ford my streams of consciousness with the prowess of a seasoned white water rafter, those I manage to land successfully are the perfect metaphor for what I’ve just written.

Again, I’m not sure.