There have been events in bymy past that I’m compelled to write about. I write about them again and again until the literature is as close as I can get it to how it went down in reality. That’s when I must walk away. It’s then that I know I’m not a good enough writer to get it any better. If I put it out and it fails, it’ll be my writing that has failed. It’s never the lived experience or the inspiration’s fault. It still makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It’s like a hot plate that I’ve stood close enough to feel the fire, but always I’ll remain a few steps away.
Then someone will mention an experience that I’ve lived through, and I’ll look at them and wonder how on earth did you know about that? Then, I’ll realize that they know about it because I told them, but I’ll have only the faintest memory of my role in the process. It’s like my story has been in the ether and all’s I can do is thank whoever it is that was responsible for allowing me to transcribe it and to momentarily feel the gossamer wings of a butterfly before it flies away again.
