Where I Get My Ideas

There’s a place in the woods behind the house where I grew up that nobody knows about but me.

It’s not far from where I used to live, but the woods thicken before you reach it, and there is no path. This renders it difficult to find, I wouldn’t have found it myself had I not been the kind of child who easily became obsessed with the abstract ideal of exploration.

The fact that I couldn’t get there easily only made me want to see what was out there even more.

It’s a little clearing in the middle of the woods, with high, thick trees obscuring the view back to the town. If you hadn’t walked there, and you’d have to walk there, you’d never know it was anywhere near civilization.

It’s beautiful area. Very peaceful.

Except for one night a year, in the fall. That night, when the moon is high and heavy, a crack of lightning rends the sky in twain, and a great, gaping chasm opens in the very earth itself.

Out of that chasm steps the Storyteller.

He’s tall, and thin, a thing more of shadow than flesh, his smile seemingly made of the very moonlight that is the only source of life.

He’s not human, exactly, though if you squint your eyes a little you could pretend he was if you need to believe him to be.

I never needed that particular belief.

And for that night, he spins his tales. Tales of mystery, and of horror, tales of adventure, or ones that paint worlds as more beautiful and bizarre than anyone could possibly imagine.

Exactly as beautiful and bizarre as the world truly is, if we chose to see it.

He spins his yarns ‘til daybreak, then steps back into the chasm, which closes up behind him, leaving no trace of what’s occurred. And for another year it’s over. He’s gone, and there is no trace lingering to give any clue as to what’s occurred.

They aren’t long stories, the tales the Storyteller weaves, but they somehow ring true to me, and I love them. They move me, they define me. if I hadn’t found this clearing when I was a child I have no idea what sort of person I’d be today.

My life would be a more meager thing, to be sure.

I still find the time to go back to my hometown once a year. I no longer have family out that way, no real reason to visit, yet every year I’m drawn back, unable to resist the impulse to return. And when the Storyteller makes his annual appearance I’m there, alone, coat torn by branches as I fight my way through the woods, to bear witness to the tales he tells. Saying nothing, never making a sound, simply hearing.

I believe he’d tell his stories even if there was nobody to listen, but it still seems right and natural to be there, a story’s not a proper story until it’s heard.

I listen, and jot down what he chooses to share. Then I take them home, and for the next year publishing them to this blog…

…wait, had you thought I’d been writing these myself?

Creativity

I never thought it’d get to that point, but it’d been weeks since I’d left my job in a fit of pique, and still no employment was anywhere to be found. I’d burned through my savings surprisingly quickly and, although I wasn’t destitute yet, I could see it looming over the horizon. Times, if not yet desperate, were rapidly approaching desperation.

So when the offer came to sell off my creativity, I didn’t immediately reject it out of hand.

After all, hearing out an offer costs me nothing, right?

It was explained that they wouldn’t take ALL my creativity, I’d be left with just enough to function. They had no interest, after all, in basic decision making, as nearly everyone is capable of that. However, there’s a mid-sized to large market of wealthy patrons interested in creating art in their abundance of leisure time, but who had no aptitude for any artistic pursuit. It was this creativity they were interested in purchasing from me.

I was sceptical, nonetheless. I mean, my creativity was a sizable portion of my identity. What would I be without it? Would I still be me? Or, if you’re of the mindset that the ability to create art is what separates us from baser animals, would I even be human?

I spent a number of sleepless nights after that first meeting, trying to puzzle the matter out. In the end, I decided against it. No matter how broke I became, no amount of money could convince me to part with a part of myself I held so dear, and I’d tell them so at the second meeting.

At the second meeting, they explained the exact amount of money that they were offering.

It was astronomical.

I’d never valued material possessions much, but I realized this was a fortune, enough money that I could do anything I wanted with my life, or, if I so chose, enough that I could do nothing at all. Not only would my continued unemployment not be a problem, but I’d never have to go to work at a day job I hated again.

So, dollar signs in my eyes, I signed the contract and we made an appointment for the procedure.

I don’t know how exactly the procedure worked, I was under sedation the whole time. But I’m told that it was successful, and that I shouldn’t worry about side effects, so I don’t worry about side effects. The cheque cleared, and after considering my options I moved to an island in the Caribbean.

I bought a gigantic house on the beach, because I’d seen wealthy people living in such places on television, I hired someone to decorate it for me, and two weeks later I moved in, ready to enjoy my wealth.

Shortly after I arrived, I threw out my books and DVDs and I deleted my collection of music. Shouldn’t have bothered packing them in the first place, I suppose. I still remember the joy they brought me once, but I can’t precisely recall how or why I enjoyed them. They just seem like a waste of time. I bought a Jetski. I Jetski now, it’s really fun.

Occasionally I travel home to visit my old haunts and spend time with my old friends from the theatre, keeping up with old friends is a thing that people do, so I do it. But when I do the conversation is always awkward, stilted, as though we were from two different worlds, incapable of understanding one another.

Which, in a way, I suppose is the case.

I find myself going back there less and less often. I have plenty of time, and I can afford it, but still…

It’s a shame, but people grow apart all the time, I try not to let it bother me.

Overall, I think I lead a satisfying life. I enjoy my Jetski, I enjoy wandering the beach at sunset, I like my big house, I like going into the little town nearby and chatting with the locals. I hike and I cycle, I’m in better physical condition than I’ve ever been. I like me, I like what I spend my time doing.

I’ve lost a lot, to be sure, and there’s a lot of parts of my old life that are meaningless to me now, but since they’re meaningless I can’t really bring myself to miss them.

Which is strange.

Because I’d thought I’d miss my creativity terribly once it was gone, but now I can’t for the life of me imagine what I’d do with it if I had it still…