I hear it from people a lot: "I don't have any stories to tell." I ask them another question. "What happened? Tell me about your day."
The adolescent response is, "Nothing."
My response is "At least you inhaled and exhaled. Your heart beat. Your body digested food. Those are all stories. You said 'Nothing' to me when that is obviously something in and of itself."
Tell me about your day: What happened?
Here's a taste of my day so far.
I got up far too early, spent time with a group of positive people celebrating infinitesimal wonder. I did my morning writing practice, throwing words into an overpriced notebook I bought before my current minor financial crisis and then I got glue all over my hand as I sculpted pages I tore out of books onto an abstraction of “Jungle”.
I never said I have an ordinary life, though perhaps I do.
Each of these moments are microstories, worthy to be told on their own, or maybe not.
Perhaps the story of my daily writing practice isn’t interesting enough to hold its weight outside of my unpolished gem file. On the other hand, who knows might come when I sculpt and mold these first words to rise up from my not-quite-awake mind?
Enough of that – surely your day contained moments when you noticed something, when you heard the clock tick, when you smelled rosemary or garlic or an aftershave that reminded you of your grandpa.