One long story

This morning I was walking in town and someone stopped me to ask if my name is Emily.

This used to freak me out, but it gets less weird as time goes on. I’m not totally sure if this is a function of a small town, or the ubiquity of Facebook. I think it’s a little of both.

You do see the same faces after you’ve been here for a while, and there are few if any degrees of separation between people, so if you don’t know that face personally, you probably know someone who does.

Couple this with the fact that for whatever reason, Facebook is a huge networking tool here, so half the town is “friends” with you… or again… if not directly with YOU, at least with half of your friends. And so on.

So, it used to be weird. But it’s not as weird anymore. Let’s say it’s like, marginally weird now.

Anyway this particular guy has read some of my stuff. He told me he enjoys writing too, and asked me about my “process”. I don’t have one of those. I should get a process, I hear they are handy.

I told him I keep a list on my phone of random ideas that pop into my head. I also have bigger themes and overarching ideas that don’t live anywhere in print, that I sit around and chew on in my head when it looks like I am doing nothing.

Sometimes I write about funny things or situations that just happened, stream of consciousness style. I’m good at spotting and telling a story, that’s all. I never really planned on being a “writer”, I have no training… certainly no process. I just write about what’s interesting or meaningful or compelling or sad to me.

“I guess I feel like life is just one long story, you can write about most anything, don’t you think? Pick a spot and dive in.”

Laughing, he said “Hey! You could even write about that strange man who stopped you on the street one day to talk about writing!”



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