I love books, but I don’t leave it there. I also love authors, especially when they have nice things to say. So, I follow the blogs of most of my favorite authors. It tends to make them feel a little bit more real to me.
One of my favorite authors, Erin Morgenstern, author of the beautiful fantasy The Night Circus, often writes, instead of typical posts, what she calls “Flax-Golden Tales”. These are ten-line stories inspired by photographs. I like the writing format quite a lot because I write a lot of poetry that sometimes turns into prose and I don’t like writing vignettes.
So, here is my take:
Sometimes when I go out I wander farther then they say I should.
I go out past the point where the city ends and it’s like civilization drops away and I am past the current century, in my own pocket of time where everything is untouched.
The words hang on the undersides of leaves here, where they cast green shadows on the ground when the sun shines on top of them.
If a wind blows it knocks the words all down and they are all thrown together to make stories more intricate than if they had been written that way, plucked unnaturally by writer’s hands.
But the story is more delicate, too, and so it falls away when the wind stops blowing and I turn to look at it.But the words are still there, newly rearranged, inert on the ground disguised as soil or else still floating on the breeze that winds its way around the letters that make up the bark.
Come and read us, come and read us
They whisper, tantalizing, knowing that I lack the power to read them at all unless they are placed together by forces that are not my own hands.
I could try to put them together to make a story, but it would be forceful, and you cannot make a story out of force.
Even if I could, it would not be as beautiful as the ones made of wind.