A House of Stories

I’ve been writing and telling stories for a good part of my life. When I reflect on that life and its intersection with my writing, I picture an old Victorian home. Through the years I’ve moved from room to room, discovering their contents, finding secrets, learning what they can teach me, and then telling tales from that space. It seems only yesterday I started in the nursery, telling silly and child-like yarns. Now I find that countless rooms have come and gone under my feet.

The most recent room has been the most unique. It contains experiences and lessons that no story I ever wrote could have held. I have been challenged more than I ever thought possible because this room, for better or for worse, contains debilitating anxiety and panic. It has kept me from holding any sort of “steady work,” as the rest of the world calls it, for the past ten years. If you, or anyone you know, has entered this section of the house, with its misaligned walls and sharp dark corners, hopefully you’ve found a way to navigate, and maybe even step free into the sweet sunlight of the veranda. If you haven’t, be encouraged. The light that you sometimes see coming in under the door is hope, keep crawling towards it.

Writing from this room has been part of my therapy, and now, that therapy has come to be a means of reaching out. I’ve figured out how to jimmy the window open and let the fresh air in. Through that same portal, I’ve learned that I can also pass a few things back out into the world.

So, once a month I plan to hand out a tale on a few scraps; born not just from this room, but from the house as a whole. If you happen to walk by and see the pages on the windowsill and are curious to read them, all I ask is that you leave a simple dollar bill behind for each story taken. In return, I will leave another tale the next month, and the next, and the next. Perhaps together, we can create a form of “steady work” to help keep the lights of the house lit, and the encouragement to continue to explore new rooms.

I call this new endeavor the "One Plan." Below is an excerpt from the inaugural story. It would be my honor if you read and then took some time to learn more on the One Plan page.

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The Missing Piece

Phil struggled as he pulled the massive puzzle piece across an impressionist landscape. Degas? Monet? It was hard to tell; the haze of the dream was as blended as the terrain surrounding him. The piece, awkward in his hands, seemed to fight against him. Didn’t it know he was trying to help?

Shifting his grip and pulling backward with all his weight, the odd dogleg only sunk deeper into the blurry grass. He knew that somewhere, maybe a bit further to the left, a bit higher; random lines formed a perfect union.

I will see this through.

With a massive heave, Phil grunted and pulled the piece free. The release sent him staggering. Melded scenery rushed by in soft pastel flows as Phil stumbled backward, the giant piece still in tow. Without warning, the brink of a softly dabbed rock cliff suddenly appeared and Phil fought to slow his momentum. He pushed back against the monstrous piece that now seemed to drive him, his feet sliding in flexed strokes of gray and brown.

Don’t you know I’m helping you?

Everything stopped. There was air beneath his heels as they hung over the mottled cliff edge. Phil stood frozen in place, pulled between a plummet to the soft strokes of the deep gorge below and the weight of the giant piece, once again unmovable. A shiver of fear ran down his back followed by a rivulet of sweat.

If only I could get a better grip.

There was a section of the puzzle piece, just inches from his right hand, that jutted out like a misshapen ear. He lunged and his hand only found empty air..............read more by becoming a One Plan member.