image credit: thebrandweavers.blogspot.com
There are stories that begin with a character: a real person that fascinates us, or an imaginary one, sort of a sweater to be knitted, with no hole to be left somewhere in the middle. There are also plot-driven stories where the action is more important than those who take part in it; these can be compared to a beautiful mansion we admire when passing by without having a clue to whom it belongs. And finally, some stories are erupted out of a single line, and idea that yearns for development, a sound rebellion against an empty page, and at the same time, a forest trail that might lead to a beautiful lake, or to a wolf hungry for some fresh meat. We will never know until we start running along the trail, hoping for a happy ending, hopefully a publication, or at least, some recognition of our creativity.
When I walk around New York, I seldom pay attention to faces around me. Paying attention to faces is often punished: people immediately start a conversation, or ask for some change. But at the same time, as a writer, I always try to catch a glimpse of life, of human happiness and misery, and to reflect what I saw on the pages of word documents spread around the screen of my laptop like stars on the midnight sky. Last week one of the tiny stars appeared on The Rusty Nail magazine's web page, which makes me proud and happy: at least, now there is something besides my passport that bears my name.
"Is it about you?" a few people asked me.
The thing is, sometimes we run into a story on a hideous street corner, and it bumps into us like a rude stranger strolling right through, and it is really up to us how much truth we let it keep, and how much input our imagination will provide. Let the readers create their own myths. Admit to it or deny it - all that matters is whether your story outlives you, or vanishes like a bird song into thin air before you do.