The Magic of Story Telling

We all do it, and we all do it daily.

You have probably told a story already today without even knowing it.
We share gossip with friends, tell our families what we have done today or even daydream.
These are the beginnings of stories ready to be told by you.

Does this mean anything? Probably not, but it’s good to write. A very common question asked within the writing world is…

‘Where are you getting your ideas from?’

–asked by many

There is no real answer to this. But what I would like to say as an answer is, What are you doing that is not giving you ideas? Yes, answering a question with a question doesn’t always give you an answer, but it could help eliminate an unanswerable question. Does that even make sense?

I believe ideas for a story are so ingrained, you just need to let them out. When I write I don’t allow myself to think, I allow myself to flow. Whatever word is coming from my head to keyboard I let it come out, and I do this every time regardless of how crazy it sounds.

So the answer I’m trying to say is… LET IT HAPPEN!
But know this, with every fiction book, an element of non-fiction helps spur it on. Get yourself something that is real and then twist it, stretch it, pull it until it becomes fiction and BAM! You have just created a character, a scene or even the front cover of your story!

Here’s another example using Jack and Jill, who went up the hill to fetch water. Two children, going up a hill for water – seriously how simple is that? You have seen people walk up and down hills a million times before I bet and never thought anything of it – but let’s change up a little.
And how do we change that? By asking ourselves, ‘What if…?’

What if… Jack stood at the bottom of a hill looking up at the haunted wishing well, rumoured throughout the village.

What if… Jill noticed Jack was missing one night and knew where her brother would be. I’ve always said his curiosity would get the better of him, thought Jill.

What if… Jill was right?

Jack stood at the bottom of the hill, looking up at the well. He could hear Jill panting from one hundred meters behind him.
‘Don’t do it, Jack,’ she said.
Jack barely glanced back at her and instead began to climb the hill.
‘Damn it, Jack, we were told not to go up there.’ said Jill.
Jack stopped. He turned to his sister and held a hard stare.
‘Why are you even here?’ he asked, angry she had found him. ‘I told you never to follow me. Now you will get us both caught.’
A low growl rolled out of the well. Jack turned suddenly, Jill dared not to look, but couldn’t resist. A moon-grey mist swayed out from the well, coiling itself around the hanging bucket and pitched roof.
‘Is that supposed to happen?’ asked Jill, knowing the answer already.
‘That is why I am here.’ replied Jack. ‘Whatever you do, make sure you don’t scream.’ Jill nervously nodded silently. She took Jacks hand, squeezing it tight. Jack looked at his hand. Girls are such wimps, he thought.

They walked up together. Halfway up, Jill looked back. The outer forest glowed in the moonlight. The autumn dew which glazed the needles of the pine trees shone like a lake.
‘It’s cold,’ Jill said, who could now visibly see her every breath. But it was not the night which hosted the chill.
Jack ignored her. He questioned his courage as they got closer to the well. No, this is what young boys are supposed to do, he thought. We go to places we are told not to go and return with our tongues out blowing raspberries. The other boys won’t believe me though, but I will just come here again, with the gang next time. Yes, that is what I will do.
He felt Jill’s grip tighten. He looked at her face and thought he saw a ghost.
‘You look petrified,’ he said to her. ‘Go back home. This is boys stuff.’
‘You’re the only boy stupid enough to come here.’
‘And you are the only girl dumb enough.’ Simulationously they stuck their tongues out at each other.
They stood side by side, no more than three meters from the well. Everything was calm, perhaps too calm.
‘Told you there was nothing to be afraid of.’ said Jack.
The bucket on the well lightly swayed with a slight creak when it rocked. Jack and Jill looked at one another and took another step closer. The bucket then swung like the bell of a town crier.
A ghost-like figure screeched out of the depths within. Jacks eardrums burst in an instant, and Jill’s eyes leaked blood. Both stiff as a board, frozen in fear. Jills nails dug into Jack’s hand like an eagle.
A final shrill from the ghost caused Jack’s knees to buckle. He stumbled back and tumbled down the hill, Jill still attached followed after.
They were found the next morning with stone-white skin, both with broken skulls from the fall.
They were buried together, Jill still attached to Jack’s hand, as no one in the village had the strength to prise them apart.
Their tombstone read:-

Here lies Jack and Jill,
Who went up The Hill.

We can ALL tell a story of any sorts. Good, bad, long, short… can’t we? So why not tell one, and let that imagination fly.

And as always; thanks for reading.

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