Sunday, January 22, 2012

Bon Chance, Children of The Write



Dieses Eis schmeckt nach Seife.---Mudhead

Onefugi, day clerk at the Arco, always greets me at the Arco counter with a big smile. She loves the stories I email her, especially the tales of my roommate Creepy. She calls them 'her stories', like women say of their Harlequin romance novels.
"I love reading my stories from you," she says, "I show them to my husband," she tells me, "You know, he says you must be CRAAAAA-ZEEE!"
"A common opinion," I answer.
'My stories'. THAT, my friend, is quite a compliment. I get other compliments; direct ones that warm my heart and indirect ones that let me know I've touched a nerve of truth. I've even gotten compliments that made me check my back pocket to make sure my wallet was still there, but 'my stories' is the kind of compliment I really like.
'My stories' implies a kind of co-ownership; co-ownership of the ideas and thoughts and characters in my stories. Like she can really relate. Like she lived some of the events in my stories THROUGH my stories, if she hasn't lived them herself in her own life already.
My stories are like children. They're all influenced by me, but each has its own personality. Anyone, like The Russian, who says they're all the same, hasn't lived with them very long, didn't REALLY want to know them. Wanna really piss me off? Ignore my children!
I encourage my children to go out into the world and make their mark. Maybe I don't encourage them enough. Whatever. But what they do once they're out there is beyond my control. Good luck, children!

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