I read a lot. I’ve found I’m not much interested in what writers are going to do. I’m also completely uninterested in reading how someone achieved something.
I may read what you write when you write those type articles, but it’s like running the bases in baseball when you hit a foul ball, a lot of energy out, but no matter how fast you run, you can’t score. I want to know the story; where you were, what was the weather like, what were you feeling, seeing, smelling? The outcome doesn’t matter at all to me, the journey is the story.
And that’s why I try and refrain from writing about current events or politics. Those aren’t my stories and all I can relate are feelings of those things. They aren’t real, at least to me. And when I read others’ writing about those kind of subjects I sense the unreality. A writer might quote facts and figures found in research, may quote any number of experts, or may relate commonly “known” facts, but all of that has nothing at all to do with the writer. And it shows in the author’s hazy commitment to the story
Even the journalist who report their facts are speaking from nothing. They relate so-called facts or quote interviewees, but there is no self awareness, no real intelligence from inside their mind, just outside noise. I want to know where you did the interview, was the sky clear, cloudy, smoggy, or filled with rain, and I want to know how your tummy felt as you asked the questions or fielded the answers. Did you have sniffles, did the interviewee have bad breath? Was there outside noise or was the interview quiet?
I’m at Starbucks, its cool inside, near a hundred outside, there’s a young woman and man sitting next to me, seemingly getting to know each other and talking about dating pros and cons. There’s the coffee grinding machine lighting up, growling and munching beans, a young woman’s voice yelling names and long drink names and a “thank-you,” a “you’re welcome, come again,” and even a cheery, “no problem” as answer to a hearty “thank you,” echoing as they bonce off the acoustic tiled ceiling. The walls are light brown, almost white, but cooling tan, and tan and earth colored framed art on every wall. A two-toned tile floor divides the floor into the standing in line section and the section where the readers, writers, and talkers sit. And my mind wanders to the next stop on my list for today as I recall the musical show I performed last night, and I’m interrupted by the cop’s annoying radio buzzing and shouting instructions in some seemingly foreign tongue. How do those guys understand where to go or what to do?
The trip is the journey and the journey is the story. If the result was the story we would all be dead.