Creator1

I often wonder about questions. Seemingly simple questions with mindbogglingly complex and convoluted answers, some with no answer at all. Questions like; ‘Where am I going?’, ‘When will I get there?’, ‘Is it better to be in an awful place when you are alone, or someplace spectacular that you cannot share about?’

There is a question that weighs heavy on my mind currently, ‘who gets to tell all the stories?’ A question that seems innocent enough, maybe something a six year old may ask before roasting marshmallows by a campfire. A question, who’s answer may be out of comprehension for our six year old inquirer.

It’s a question that has potentially dire outcomes. It may seem inconsequential, would you want an ex spouse writing your eulogy? Would it be fair for me to tell your story? I tell stories as a hobby, but more importantly, I do it as a practice. ‘Who gets to tell all the stories?’ For now, in my world, I do, for now. Writing gives the ability to be the (in my opinion) the most accurate chronicler of my life for myself and those close to me. There’s no cleaner example of this in my mind than when I write historical fiction. I try my absolute best to be honest, fair, and accurate when writing historical fiction, but that only takes you so far. Even with infamous historical events there are always gaps. Things that are hard to quantify sometimes, things like weather, ambiance, dialogue, clothing, perception, who was a ‘good guy’, these people now allow me to tell their story (and many before me, and many after me.)

The question presents other potential issue when reading historical accounts. They are often controlled, changed, twisted, sometimes for stupid reasons. For instance, Paul Revere was the sole rider credited for the ‘British are coming!’ thing. When in reality, there were more than three riders, Paul Revere was caught by the British. In fact the only rider to make it to Concord early enough to warn the weapons stockade about the British was Samuel Prescott. Henry Longfellow ended up writing a poem initially titled Paul Revere’s midnight ride making him a legend. Interestingly enough, Revere’s funeral or obituary never even mentioned Paul Revere’s midnight ride, instead it spoke of his business acumen and his friends and loved ones.

I write to have staunch evidence against someone telling (or selling) my story for me, in the same way Longfellow did for Revere. There are times when I experience something I cannot explain. When I look up at a deep Navy blue or black and see the endless expanse of starts, only hearing the wind whip gently past my ears. Or when one of my kids still reaches out for my hand. These are moments that, by definition, can’t really be described in a way that reflects the meaningfulness to you. How could my words even begin to do these feelings justice, can I tell that story how I’d like to? Hopefully, for the rest of my days me, and only me, gets to tell all the stories. If I cannot tell the story. I try to soak it in, maybe not write about it, and realize I just experienced something awesome, finite, human, perhaps happiness. Is it worth telling that story? Or is it better to just soak it in, never writing it down, kept sacred?

Hopefully, for the rest of my days me, and only me, gets to tell all the stories.