Will You Tell My Story?
Writers, have you ever been minding your own business, doing what you do. Going about your day. You know, thinking about what you need to get at the grocery store and whether the weather will be good enough to BBQ this weekend and then… suddenly you feel a tap on the shoulder.
And there he is.
Your next main character, as clear as if he were a real-life person (Shhh don’t tell him he is fictional, he won’t like it).
My heart beats a little faster. He is a gorgeous character after all. His obvious good looks and charm are not what has my pulse racing.
He leans down and whispers into my ear. His warm breath on my face smells like tic tacs and mystery. “Tell my story.”
“What? Why me? Why now?” I feel the cold grip of fear playing with my innards.
It’s not like I’m averse to telling his story per se, it’s just……I turn to face him, unable to meet his piercing ice blue eyes.
“What if I disappoint you? What if I can’t tell your story in a way that you deserve?”
A slow and steady smile spreads across his face. “There’s a reason I chose you.”
The words hang in the air between us.
The weight of it all presses down on my soul, while my heart swells with gratitude.
“Okay then.” His smile extends and the light in the room seems to intensify.
I grab my cup of fortification off the counter. “Let’s talk.” He follows me to my office.
“Thank you.” His voice trembles as it breaks the silence.
And just like that, I’m no longer staring at a blank page.
I’m getting to know a new friend. I sit in my chair and he lowers himself onto the edge of the sofa, his elbows on his knees. He rakes his hand through his raven colored hair. He’s a few decades younger than me, but in him I sense an old soul, surpassing me in life experiences.
This should be interesting.
Without warning, he looks up and meets my gaze, and catches me staring.
I feel my cheeks warm. I can’t help it, I’ve always been curious, wanting to know what makes people tick. I clear my throat, and look away, not wanting to make him feel like he’s under my writer’s microscope, even though he is. “Shall we begin?” I feel the significance of this moment with every fiber of my being.
He nods and sits up straighter.
“Let me tell you about myself.” He settles back into the plush cushions of my sofa, the tension seeping into the floor at his bare feet.
My sharpened pencil hovers over the crisp page on my clipboard.
I’m ready to listen. Ready to hear what he has to say.
And maybe one day, you’ll know him too.
Melony Teague is a freelance writer who believes everyone has a story to tell. As co-author of As the Ink Flows, she loves to inspire and motivate others through her written words. She writes Contemporary Romance and YA with a dash of humor. Member of ACFW. Melony was born in South Africa and now lives in Toronto with her husband, their two teenagers, and two cats.
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