The first story I ever wrote was in first grade. It was about an indian princess named Wild Flower. I think she was gathering firewood when she was stolen by a hunter. Her horse was left alone without her. That night, Wild Flower rescued herself by stealing this hunter's gun and boat, and rowing back home. Her horse's name was something that began with the letter "P."
I didnt know how to write a romantic love interest. I wasnt sure who should save Wild Flower. Somewhere in my head, the hunter was the lover-- but I did not leave them together. I will find the horse's name in a dream somewhere.
I wonder if all the stories we write and tell in our lives are just efforts to retell that first one.
She saves herself in the end... I like that. What's strange is, we aren't only writing and telling that first story all our lives; in some cases we're actually living it because we know it from a narrator's perspective and then we inhabit the character.
ReplyDeleteyeah! i think i want to think about this more
ReplyDeleteand she saves herself, but i have mixed feelings about how good that actually is...