The store of stories
I ‘ve been asked where stories come from and I give several logical replies; they come from history, Sir Walter Scott’s Tales of a Grandfather is full of story lines and even plots; they come from overheard conversations; they come from memories but … I have a great deal of respect and even fondness for the leader of our local writers’ group but the latest idea, a follow on from the childrens’ story exercise to that of a rhyming one was a genre too far. Turning it over as I sat looking out through my window at the trees, I decided not to take part and put it out of my mind. I reached for my note pad and wrote –
A leprechaun,
Called Sean
All dressed up in a fine suit of green,
As smart as has ever been seen
***
He heard a low flying swallow say
You’re looking your smartest today
***
He’d just started to jog
When he noticed a dog
***
My name is the thing I’ve forgot
It might be Sam or just Spot
It could be Ron or maybe it’s Rover
I’ve considered it over and over.
Not good, but I’d no intention of making notes for that rhyming story, so, where did it come from? Was if skulking in the trees, or rustling in the grass? Was it lurking in my subconscious, or in a spirit world of some kind? The truth is, I don’t know where stories come from. We can find out what Mars is made of, but there are elements of existence we know nothing about. Why? Because we have no methodology, no technique or spreadsheet to allow us to investigate how a wife knows her husband, hundreds, even thousands of miles away has died.
Incidentally, I’ve no idea what will happen to the dog, or why the swallow was there, but I confidently expect that, somehow, Sean will tell me what happened.