Experience tells the Story

Experience is what makes writer well-rounded. And I don't mean the unpaid get your name out there into publications, experience. I am talking about the one of a kind breathtaking, risk defying, random moment experience. That is what makes a writer as well rounded as a college applying high schooler tries to be after taking a few too many intro of art classes. 

The way a writer can simply write in wise detail of the world, is something that I have begun to think of on my own as I further sink myself into the wonderland of it. I have picked and prodded pieces of random topics, and I am beginning to see that the amount adventure or experience that the writer is able to divulge is a large indicator of if I continue to read. Whether the article be the simplest idea about how decadent their fettuccine alfredo was on vacation, or if they discovered a new species of plant in the amazon. It has always been there in front of me when authors are suddenly just as fantastic of an essayist or a whimsical blogger. These little moments of caught words, well they might as well be the next great work of prose. Thought, emotion, it is all there. Years I have seen and wondered as I read like people watch Netflix. How do they it?

They have stories.

While I have to scower to cut out every "you" in an essay that I want to relate in, I see now that the essay of a past— a story is yelling at me once and for all to just use "I." To show that I believe I deserve to be heard and not let myself mumble the overused excuse of "I don't like to talk about myself," or that it is hard to. I am already a writer, everything is difficult anyway! Might as well take out an odd fear from my brain and leave some room for fear of freshwater fish. 

"It is an epidemic with women your age. A gross disparity between the way they speak and the quality of thoughts they are having about the world. They are taught to express themselves in slang, in cliches, sarcasm- all of which is weak language. The superficiality of the language colors the experience, rendering them disposable instead of assimilated..." -Stephanie Danler, Sweetbitter

To talk about myself and how I am standing, or rather typing here today, I mean to be a character in an all too real story. To express the tiniest thoughts in the strangest of purple prose if I so shall please when it makes sense to me and my mind. Maybe that is how I will relate, not to you all- or at least not all the time, but to myself. That is how the writers do it after all. They weave themselves into a story all their own to somehow chat with a point and wit. They are like the most dramatic of coincidental heroes who still don't know the reader is still reading, because of them. Because of how they see and breathe each day in like the most prominent of short story climaxes that makes even me want to pack up a threadbare backpack and somehow climb the mountains of Europe.

Instead of textbooks and theme studies to help understand, they have themselves to draw from. When reading their piece, they might as well be the wise magic holder that you nod at with every word being taken in.

That is kind of experience to have. Experience that takes chance whether it be to wander, wonder, or both. Those two W's on my to do list each and every day since it means that I am living for a reason. Even if I do push away that same reason that screams the need to write my own stories of everyday in my journal so that I don't forget instead of jotting down the good bits so that I can abuse them in the future. 

Right now, I need those stories. I wish upon a star that I had more stories, period. Stories that mean something enough  to resonate and elaborate on life and utter being, rather than the constant simple entertainment my fictionalized novels are privileged to be. They give joy and emotion. My own life I hope, emotion and thought.

In this moment though, I have nothing. I question if I ever will have those stories that are more than first kisses in a cemetery, that I will have experiences that are not meaningless to everyone but me.

I want somethings out of nothing, yes. But I also desire to write something out of things. Things like me and around me that deserve not to be forgotten. Even if they may need a little face lift.

So here, maybe you'll see it.

Let's make some stories.


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