I Write with a Paintbrush
We all have a story inside use. A story waiting to see the light of day; reaching and clawing its way out. We all have a story that wants to be heard. To be validated. To be accepted. Our stories are our own niches, carved into this world. To sit in this world. Our stories can be bold, bright, loud, quiet, mellow. They can swing us around in a dance of our own self-expression or leave rain drops scattered on our covers, soaking in the sensation of life. Our stories have people that have left footprints marred on our hearts, leaking sorrow onto the pavement of our plots with heroes and support following behind with dust pans sweeping the debris away, exposing the blossoms of hope and healing.
We all have stories that screech to a halt before escaping our lips, leaving silence in their wake.
Some stories twirl on lilting notes flowing from throats.
My story is painted up canvases in sorrow, hope, and connection. Dripping brushes left strewed about and paint covered clothes and phones. Blending of colors holding strokes of anger and strokes of care. My story is healing that words dared not touch, unable to translate my body, my experience, my soul. I tell my story with paint because it's the only way I know how to. It is a personification I can tangibly feel and touch.
Your story may be paint, words, sound etc. Whatever it is, share it. Your story defines who you were, who you are, and who you will be. Your plot is your own. Not mine. Not anyone's. You define your plot. So take a moment and look at your story. Does it tell your story or someone else? Does it lead you where you want to go? Is it time to start a new chapter, new book, or a different series?
Ask yourself, how do you want your story told?