This is how it happened.
Some time back, we'll say some months, Chuck Beard of East Side Story presented a few local authors with a project. This great idea that writers would write stories paired with musicians who then made music or in tandem with those stories A book, a cd, a story, a song. What an amazing project to be a part of. What an honor.
So, "Count me in," I say. Author cohorts JT Ellison, Ariel Lawhon and others did the same. Then I traveled and worked on other deadlines, other projects, keeping a watchful eye on the calendar. A month went by and then another and I began to think, "Hmm, what was I thinking? One more thing? One more deadline dished up on my plate?"
But there in the recesses of my mind was this seed, this tiny seed of something. I could feel it nudging. So it gave me hope that someday, sometime soon, I'd plant myself and give birth to this thing, this short-story thing and all would be well. Simple. Brush those hands off. Check that box. The deed is done.
Some people think they want to tell a story. Or, write a story. That surely it can't be so very, hard. To type this thing. Perhaps to some degree that's true. But to carve character out of stone? That's a different thing. Like willing bone into space, mere thought into matter.
Finally, this morning, I took that seed, carried it to the page and began to type. Eight hours later, I'm wearing muddy boots, standing in a rain to end all rains, heart weeping for the thing that history did. And . . .
I feel exhausted. Like I've traveled to another world, shed my skin, lived another life this day, maybe ten. I've tried to step away but there she is time and time again, still talking. Still telling it.
I've been possessed by story. And, I'll have to listen, to keep on writing, till the very end.