The paths we pick in story vary in length, complication and difficulty.
Each are all our own. Some may seem easier then others to start and get more complicated as they go on.
We may share the ups and down with others, some with people hand picked, often with strangers we would rather not travel with.
Maybe sometimes a newcomers joins and becomes family over time.
The end result of our journey is always a mystery, a where, a what a when.
Maybe we get to pick up again and continue on, or it will it be-over, the final spot the last place we stop.
The bone yard.
A place a story never recovers from.
A place a story goes to die.
We hope to have a say in which it will be.
I think the Greeks had the best word for this when they called it hubris, because you really can’t know for sure.
Not every piece of prose is gold.
Maybe the click of key after key, sentence after sentence is attempt to stay ahead of the knowledge of it, the knowing that behind you is the resting place. The time to stop, the time get critiqued, to take the medicine and listen to the words that tell you which it will be.
Stories 