The Story in Front of Us

I think writing began for me when I was carrying feelings that felt bigger than the words I could say aloud.

There were things I wanted to express, but for different reasons, I chose not to.

So I wrote them instead.

A feeling became a line.

A thought became a poem.

And slowly, writing became a place where I could put things I was not ready to say.

Years later, I think that taught me something about stories.

A story does not always begin with something extraordinary happening.

Sometimes it begins simply because something happens to us, and we feel something because of it.

That feeling becomes our version of the moment.

And that is what fascinates me about storytelling.

Two people can witness exactly the same incident and walk away remembering completely different things.

One might remember what was said.

Another might remember how it made them feel.

The incident remains the same.

The story does not.

Perhaps that is why I have started believing that almost anyone can be an author.

Stories are already around us.

They are in conversations.

In journeys.

In people we meet.

In things that make us happy, uncomfortable, surprised, angry, curious or quiet.

The question is whether we notice them.

And then whether we choose to give them words.

That is also how I want to write.

Not simply to record what happened, but to be honest about what I felt while it was happening.

What did I notice?

What did I assume?

What surprised me?

What stayed with me afterwards?

That is the part of the story that belongs to me.

Someone else who was there might tell the story of that same moment in a completely different way.

And I think that is beautiful.

Because when I tell a story, I can only give the reader my experience of it.

I might have felt joy.

Surprise.

Resentment.

Discomfort.

But the person reading those same words may feel something entirely different.

Something I found funny may make someone else thoughtful.

Something that stayed with me for one reason may remind another person of something completely unrelated.

The words remain the same.

What they create in another person can be entirely different.

Perhaps that is the real beauty of storytelling.

We give someone our version of a moment.

And somewhere between our words and their experience, the story becomes something new again.

So maybe authorship begins much earlier than publishing a book.

Maybe it begins the moment something happens in front of us, we feel something because of it, and somewhere inside us comes the thought:

I want to tell someone about this.

And then we decide to give that moment words.