It’s surprising to me.
Yours was not the story I set out to write, not the story I expected to tell.
But now I find myself turning in circles in the middle of it, trying to see which way to go.
Listening for your voice to tell me what comes next.
I had romantic notions that I would, one day, write a longer story set in some sun-drenched history – my history or someone else’s. Something mythological or a soul-searching portrait of a particular person, a particular time, even an adventure. But nothing about the future.
I’ve always tried to write what I know. What I’ve lived.
I haven’t lived the future, haven’t really even ever read the future. I’m not much into science fiction.
But you snuck up on me with this story of yours. Told me a bit, drew me in, left me hanging, then told me a bit more.
And you keep telling me. I hear you when I’m silent, when my world is silent. Urging me to stay with you. Reminding me that we have a main character somewhere out there, wandering in the wilderness.
Will you go out to find him and bring him back? Or will you keep on as you are and wait for him to return on his own? I don’t know. You haven’t told me about that part yet.
It seems that after all, people are people. Past, present, future. Maybe it doesn’t matter if they wander in the lush past, or the confused present, or even the bleak, post-apocalyptic future.
Maybe they are the part I know about, the thing we have in common. Maybe it is the story of people, their reactions, their feelings, their personalities, that transcends time and place.
People, and the human quest for resolution, for answers.
Because you have my attention; I want to know what happens.