This Old Story

When I started this project I was hoping that these daily blog posts would shed some light on the writing process.  I’m pretty sure that hasn’t happened.  It most certainly hasn’t happened the way I thought it was going to.  I foresaw coming on here after writing each day and walking step by step through some choices I had made or explaining why I set a scene in a certain area or things like that.  I don’t think I’ve written a blog post like that yet.  (Have I?)

The thing I’m realizing (again) is that you can either talk about a story, or you can tell the story, but it’s difficult to do both.  It might even be more than difficult, it might be impossible.  I have no idea what it is that I do here, or why I have this annoying innate urge to tell stories, nor do I know why you all have an innate urge to read stories.  I don’t think about it too much but I’ve become certain over the past decade and a half of writing that some sort of purpose is being served here.  I don’t care to narrow it down more than that and maybe all sorts of things are happening, entertainment and catharsis and empathy and the passing of knowledge and the sharing of ideas and so forth.  Or maybe we’re all just really bored.

What I do know is that the more I talk about a story, the less I write a story.  Which makes it very difficult for me to blog about writing, which is something I probably should have seen coming.  It’s almost like there isn’t a “how.”  There’s just “do.”  I don’t know, maybe I should have written more recaps over the course of this project, those were doable, once the story is done then I can talk about it some, but the stories started coming awful awful fast and those recaps kind of died out.

Anyway, no real point here. I’m just procrastinating on a Sunday afternoon and looking back over the course of this project and trying to figure out what it is that I’ve done here.