Her heart was a secret garden and the walls were very high. - William Goldman
Everywhere they talk of writers working to compose stories. But I have a different perspective. I will tell you about the writer behind stone and brambles, rose and remembrances - the writer in their heart's castle. I can not say why they remain there, for the reasons are as many as the writers themselves. Too much self-criticism. Not enough time in the day. Shyness, doubt, wrong thinking, overconfidence, distraction. The walls may be a defence or a prison. The roses may be beautiful or barbed. Whatever a writer's reason, in their castle they sit, in their silence.
And story comes to find them. It makes a way through the brambles, with sword or by singing, to court the writer and fill them with words.
Sometimes it will storm their castle, taking them by surprising, bringing them at once to their knees with a wild love at first sight. Other times it must slog for long months until discovering finally a secret door that will let it in, and even then the job is not done - for every rose must be plucked from the wall and given to the writer, and every brick of their heart broken into shimmering dust.
Storytelling is not an occupation, it is a relationship. What the reader receives depends on whether the writer takes advantage of the story, or welcomes it in with love.
art by arthur rackham