I was called a storyteller, recently. (Read this first, if you want to make sense of this post)
I acknowledge that I am a storyteller, don’t want to be modest and such. There have been a few times when I have told stories. Some have been good stories, some have been quite lame. But that’s how you get there, you keep at it.
In the post (link above) where I was called a storyteller, I wondered what kind of storyteller I am. I am not C-Bag, and I am grateful for that. I am definitely not Wallace-ish. I am certain, I am not Murakami-ish. But I am someone-ish, perhaps. Which makes me think of this anthem by S&G:
This post is not about the style of stories that are being told. This is about the stories that I cannot tell. Stories of love. Stories of
hate dislike. Stories of gain and loss. Stories of depression and ecstasy. No, those stories don’t sell.
The people in the stories do not want these stories to be published.
Some stories will be ours, personal, and secret. They may be beautiful, dreary, shocking, wondrous, or fantastic, but they will be untold. Storytelling is not just the responsibility of the storyteller.
Do not be a passive, patient audience.