Every writer is a hoarder.
With writers, it’s stories – collected from the first day we hear someone relating a lesson from history or life. As years pass, our “collection” grows to encompass experiences well beyond geography or time.
Like any collection, these narratives become coloured from the attrition and experiences of our lives, evolving into hybrid creations of our own devising.
Snowflakes
I don’t want my own epic to melt away like snowflakes. What memoirs have been scattered like petals of flowers left on the graves of loved ones? What became of prized tales, once kept and cared for like soft toys abandoned after childhood. I have pretty much lost the story of my grandmother on her deathbed. She gave me a pretty tin of sweets. Four years old, I had no idea I’d never see her again. I can’t remember what the tin looked like, what kind of candies were in it, and I can no longer see her face.
Treasure
Every single one of us hoards within us our own epic of joy, love, loss, mourning. Can there be shinier or more spell-binding treasure than our own yarns, even if disguised? And what better place to keep these than in the treasure chest of a book?
Maybe this is the year to share some of your hoard. You might be surprised at who will treasure it.
