So you're a storyteller. What does
that mean to you?
As a storyteller, you weave a spell
over those who listen. You are the enchantress,
the sorcerer, the wizard.
You enchant and cajole, you make them
laugh and cry.
You entertain. You create.
You entrap. You destroy.
You pick up the pieces and build again,
sculpting a new dream, a new story out of the soft
clay of your imagination. Sometimes it is hailed
as a masterpiece, and sometimes it crumbles into
dust before it is ever unveiled.
And sometimes, it takes on a life
of its own.
Sometimes, it was alive before you.
These are the times when you put pen
to paper, a hand other than your own moves it. The
times when your computer monitor flashes words across
the screen you didn't type. The times you wake up
at two in the morning because someone was whispering
in your ear a delicious secret you simply must share.
You are never alone then.
Call them voices, spirits, your muse.
Call them anything you wish. These waking dreams,
these fantastical visions are what make you a writer.
Call it your gift; or call it your
curse.
For me: a curse. For you: a dream.
But know it for what it is.
The names that come from nowhere,
the voices that speak to you when you're trying
to eat your dinner or watch the game. These are
the precious moments we take for granted.
Where did that character's name come
from? Certainly, you didn't just make it up - did
you?
But, you think, of course I didn't
make it up. I don't know where it came from, it
was just…well…. there.
And those eyes. The ones that aren't
your own, but stare at you from your mirror. Where
did they come from?
Certainly not Neverland.
And the hand that forces yours to
write. This isn't a demon, surely. But is it an
angel?
What possesses you and makes your
imagination fly?
Who is that behind you, standing over
your shoulder and reminding you when you make a
mistake? And the other spirit, holding your hand
as you continue on and letting you know it will
turn out okay in the end. Who are they?
What are they?
Be careful, my friends, what you wish
for… well, you know the old adage.
The voice that wakes you up in the
wee hours of the morning… have you ever asked him
to just let you sleep? To wait to tell you until
the morning?
Of course not. You know why. You feel
it is a privilege for him to talk to you, to share
such a wonderful secret. You would never dream to
tell him to go away, he might never come back.
Believe me, it doesn't matter.
He _always_ comes back.
You might feel that storytelling is
a gift. To me - it's merely a way of life and a
curse I cannot shake. It's how I earn my bread.
It's how I warm myself in the cold winter.
It's how I continue on.
I tried to stop once. I tried to tell
him to just go away, leave me alone to enjoy a normal
life. To let me live in peace, without his constant
whispers.
Do you know, he laughed?
He told me I should be proud to be
visited by a King. Delighted to merely know his
name. I should cower before him, not push him away.
I tried, believe me - I tried.
But he was insistent.
He needed a storyteller, a writer
to inform the world of his greatness. Every time
I tried to run away, he followed. He wouldn't let
me sleep; he invaded my dreams.
The chains that bind me are not made
of iron, but they are stronger than any metal.
He holds me with my own sanity, threatening
to take it all away if I disobey. He will drive
me to the pits of despair if I do not follow his
every whim. He is the devil, I tell you, and if
a hell exists I expect to find him there when I
die. No matter how hard I fought back, he was still
there.
He has absolute power over me.
He said that I intrigued him; my
thoughts and my dreams were so vivid. He said I
had a way with words.
I wish I didn't.
He says that I know him like no other.
I don't understand why.
And you know what else? He says that
he owns me, and my soul. He believes in himself
that much. He is dangerous, and when I do not please
him, he invades my dreams once more. It's not pretty.
He's not pretty.
I don't care what you think. His smile
holds no laughter, no kindness. He can be cruel
- and he is. I have seen your stories. You embrace
him with laughter, you glorify him.
He loves that.
I can only warn you: be careful.
Do not give him too much consequence. Do not make
him the hero.
Do not call attention to yourself.
He might decide to start a storyteller collection.
Know him for who he is.Know him for
what he has done.Believe nothing you read or hear.
If he takes your hand and forces it to write, stop
him. If the computer starts to type on its own,
turn it off. Rip the plug out of the wall, actually.
And if he visits you in your dreams…
Pray.
But you will not believe me. You will
continue to love him, worship him as a god.
When at best, he's a fallen angel.
I must continue to glorify him, to
esteem him in your eyes. That is his job for me.
Perhaps someday he will release me. Perhaps I will
just die from the exhaustion of writing. Perhaps
you will not heed my warning. Perhaps someday I
will meet you here, in my cell of non-existence
where the Goblin King holds my soul.
Perhaps you will be wise, or not.
But you will continue to write, of
that I am certain.
After all…
It's only a story.
Graphics Provided By:
