I can’t tell a story. To SAVE MY LIFE, or the life of someone I care about, or even someone with whom I’m only faintly acquainted but hey I’m a nice girl so I’ll give the whole life-saving thing a go if only to benefit my karma, I cannot tell a story.
I get the order wrong. I don’t have bright and shiny descriptive… um… things. WORDS. Those things. I know the middle, and I know how it starts, and I kind of know where I want to get. But not how. And the momentum, it kind of loses all of it. I start out with a great pace, kind of get muddled around after a bit, and in the end if someone could draw a pictorial of the wending path of my story it would start to look like one of those Family Circus cartoons where Billy (not my Billy – who would give you A Look if you called him Billy – but the cartoon Billy) has been all over the neighborhood chasing a butterfly.
Where was I? Right. Story. Can’t tell one.
I would love to be one of those vastly entertaining story-tellers, the kind that are sought out in parties and added to guest lists by virtue of their story-telling abilities alone. “Oh, let’s invite Tiff! You know how fun she is with a story. Maybe she’ll tell the one about how she hugged the toilet at Iguana Mack’s. That one’s a HOOT!”
At first, I thought that by my very blogging nature, I MUST be a good story-teller. Ask Bill about that. I’d be in a conversational group, wending my way along, realize I was taking too long, start to see the eyes of my audience glaze over, try to frantically recall any pithy and fun detail that might corral the interest back in my direction and not on, oh, say, DUST MOTES, catch Bill’s “WRAP IT UP” glare, and peter to a stuttering halt with a sheepish smile. At which point there would be a collective, mostly inaudible “ANYWAY!” sigh, and I would relinquish conversational control to someone more qualified.
I stopped telling stories. Unless I was drunk. Ask me about when I was drunk! Everybody knows drunk people are interesting! And funny!
Anyway. Fortunately, the Internet is blessed with those bloggers who CAN tell a story, and tell a story well. Like this one, and this one, and this one. I read them. I study them. I learn from them. And in the end…
In the end…
I STILL can’t tell a story to save my life. Or anyone else’s. It is my life-long sorrow. My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes.
Hey, wait, I’ve found something I AM good at. Gross, negligent exaggeration. WIN.