Wednesday, February 7, 2007

Oh, how the mighty have fallen!

I used to pride myself on my story-telling capabilities: interesting character names, appropriate sounds and actions, general enthusiasm, and would subsequently mock those who lacked such talent. Who has not been entertained by my story of being attacked by a enraged goose? Body slapped by an 90-year-old Ukrainian woman? I remember dismissing out of hand a really nice, good looking guy solely on his complete inability to tell a good story. Who wants to be stuck with a person who can't tell a good story to save his soul? Not me!

How ironic, therefore, that for the past week, every story I attempt to relate falls resolutely on its face. I start out fine, but mid-way find that the story has no plot, no point, no direction, or I remember so few of the details to make the tale absolutely which point I have to abort ship and acknowledge failure. Why is this happening to me? Is it my audience? Am I folding under the pressure to entertain them? Are they just more demanding in their expectations? Or do I generally just suck, and I am just now finding it out? Perhaps everyone previously was just indulging me. All I know is that if I were Scheherazade, I would be dead right now.

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