Words. Words. Words.
Words. Words. Words, or Everyone Else Knows What’s Best
You find yourself drawn to the written word. Nice. Perhaps you’re a natural storyteller or you think because you never received less than a B minus on a spelling test, this is what you should be doing. Fair enough.
This is my second go-round with this particular avocation and there’s one thing which absolutely has not changed. When people find out I/you are a writer or have aspirations of writing, most everyone has a story they feel compelled to share. And undoubtedly, with the same conviction reserved for most car bomb drivers, I/YOU need to be the one who tells this amazing tale.
Sometimes they’re right. More often than not pulling out your own teeth with rusty pliers would be preferable to enduring these ideas being pitched clumsily at you. Being made aware of them won’t keep them from assailing your ears, but here are a few of the more common varieties.
The ½ idea.
There’ll be a great or passable premise, and no follow through. “It’s about two friends and they find a duffel bag filled with money.”
“I’m listening.” You say.
“One guy wants to party with it. The other wants to give it charity. There’s hot chicks and car chases and lots of stuff blowing up.”
“O-k. Then what?”
“And, that’s all I got. I mean, you’re the writer, you can come up with the rest, can’t you?”
The Totally True Non-Story; one of my personal favorites.
Your best friends’ stepdad is half lit on a six of Old Milwaukee and he says, “I ever tell you about the time I met Tupac?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he came into the restaurant I was working at. It was him and some other guy, I didn’t recognize him though. It was ten in the morning and he wanted something off the lunch menu.”
“He who?” You ask.
“Huh?”
“He who? There are two guys you’re talking about. Which he wanted lunch?”
“Tupac! Geez, I thought you were listening. Why would I tell a story about the other guy?”
“O-k. Sorry. Go on.”
“Tu-pac,” stepdad overemphasizes, “wanted lunch, but we weren’t serving lunch yet. Normally I’d say no, but I see its Tupac, and he waves at me. So I’m like, o-k. For you, I’ll make a turkey melt.”
“Then what happened?”
“He gave me and the waitress $10 tip each.”
“And . . .?”
“And what? That’s it. You expect there was some sort of gangsta shootout at Sally’s Diner inRochester?”
“What’d the other guy order?” I try to hide my exasperation.
“Waffles. Or pancakes. Dunno. He wasn’t famous.”
I’m Too Busy to Write, But if I Did, it Would be Genius
The final kind of the many, many, (heavy sigh) many, different kinds of advice you’ll be offered come from the writer who doesn’t write. This particular beast doesn’t write because conditions are less than optimal for him/her to commit their genius to the blank page. Certainly their ideas and stories are better than anything out there at present. But they are unable to wrestle with the blank page because their psychic has currently advised against it. But the next best thing is about to happen. This non writer will be happy to share their idea with you and then can split the take. Consider this your lucky day.
And if you’re a writer who’s worth half a hot damn, you’ll listen for signs of good stories, as they are almost never loud, nor boastful, but mentioned almost in passing. A simple aside in the endless stream of words we’re bombarded with daily. And there in the quiet ether, some of the most memorable words you’ve ever heard will reside, waiting for you to coax them from their hiding place, and bring them to life.
