I get scared that, if a story doesn't come quickly, it won't come at all. Summer leers at me, reminding me of how it is my fallow season, my dried-up withering just-breathing season, and if I have no story to carry with me into the drought, I will be silenced for months.
So I catch at everything and examine it close for possible story. Every song, every smile glimpsed across a room. I go back through what I've just written, wondering how I can spin it out, spin it on, make new story from old. I wrangle myths from passing moments and try to shake the god right out of sky so I can look into his lush mountain-coloured eyes and see there promises of love I might steal and turn into story.
Sometimes though, I get wise, and sit for a while in quiet. And then pig-farmer daughters and furious sorcerers and the women who live under oak-rooted puddles come to sit also in my quiet, drawn to the possibilities I offer them, just I am drawn to theirs. I have to remember not to grab them and eat their story-rich bones, but just stay ... listen ... wait ...
Nothing can come in to my imagination if I'm clutching white-knuckled, half-strangling, at any passing inspiration.
(This is the sixth post in a daily series about stories and storytelling, to help promote my fund-raising storybook The Coracle Sky, which is now available.)