It is so hard for me to verbally tell a story. If you know me, you know what I’m talking about. I know I am horrible at it. Awful. I admit it, I am not a good storyteller. But why?
I’m a sick freak about truth. It’s weird, but it is so hard for me say something unless it is true. It’s like “say what you mean, mean what you say” taken with a gallon of Red Bull. It’s really annoying. If I’m telling a story and I say something even a little wrong, I have to correct it.
So Lacey called me this morning at ten, wait nevermind, it was eleven, wait no, ten thirty, yeah it was ten thirty. Anyway, she called to tell me…
See what I mean? Who cares what time it was! But that loud little voice in my head is quietly screaming, “Truth, truth, truth, truth!”
In order for me to tell a story well, I have to remember to think about not saying the little details that don’t matter. And then, if I do say a detail and say it wrong, even slightly wrong, I have to concentrate on not correcting that detail that doesn’t matter, that never mattered, that never will matter. There’s a bloody battle going on inside my brain every time I tell a story. I have to think about the story and put it together in my head before I speak. Sigh. It’s so much work being me.