A Story Begins
April 25, 2024
Tell your story…
Those words echoed in my head as I stared at the blank page, willing something to appear in front of me. It isn’t often that I feel the call to write, but for some reason tonight I was stuck at my keyboard, unable to wrench myself away until something poured out.
I had writing fever, but didn’t know why.
Normally when I get this way it’s because something happened that was too big to handle in my brain. Following a near death experience, I wrote my most emotionally cathartic piece. Following the Uvalde Shooting and the subsequent mess that was my office, I wrote a short story to release the tension, sorrow, and fear that had built up during the day. Following a gorgeous spring day, I wrote to share the light I felt within.
Each of these stories had a springboard, something that launched the desire to write. They lit the flame inside me.
Tonight, however, the flame was lit and nothing was swirling.
Except those three words.
Tell your story…
They continued to swirl as I fought to tell my story, to get down anything to relieve the pressure of my brain to dump it all out, word after word after word until my brain lie dormant and empty.
It wasn’t that easy though. There was nothing to write.
Or maybe the issue was too much to write, too many things that had been compressed over a period of finals, studying, stress, competition, sleepless nights and early mornings.
Either way, I needed to write, and staring at those words at the top of my blank page sparked something in me.
So here I am, writing down the only thing I can think of. Writing about my inability to write.
It was about halfway through the draft that I had mocked up in my head that something struck me.
A memory had sprung from the swirling vortex of my mind of my grandpa.
Papa Stan was the type to never tire of stories. His mind, his life was an endless well that spewed stories, wisdom, adventure and love at all turns, never running dry. He was a medic during the Vietnam War, a husband and father, an entrepreneur, obsessed with family history and his own history.
He’s currently putting all those stories down on paper so he can draft a book, not for the fame or glory of publishing, but simply to have all his stories written down and remembered.
When I asked why he was writing everything down at a near frantic pace, my Papa told me that, “We won’t, can’t remember everything. Eventually some things slip through the cracks. I write to remember, so those stories will always be with me.”
So here I am, doing the same thing.
So many things happen, beautiful, small, simple things and life-altering, earth-shattering big things.
Remembering every moment and writing them down can prolong those feelings (think like a gratitude journal but with all your favorite stories) and have shown to reduce stress, anxiety, and have a whole host of other mental health benefits.
It also creates a list of all your stories, things to reminisce on years down the line when the memories do fade.
I’m not sure how long or how often I’ll post updates here, but cheers to writing things down, documenting the stories that make my head into the swirling vortex of thought that it is. Maybe at some point I’ll put enough stories down to untie the knot there as well.
Welcome to my journal,
Ben
