Spirit of Story: Come Now and Rescue Me

This has been bouncing in my head for weeks now.  

Spirit of story

Come now and rescue me, 

Journey beyond the seen and dream.

Spirit of story 

Come now, turn word to song 

Brilliance, write no wrongs

Sprit of story come now let’s wander far, page turn till dawn…

Anyway, I don’t know, it is a whole thing living inside this head.  

So I texted my friend and writing partner Katie M. Reid, (who does sing, compose, write best-selling books,) and said: 

I have a tune in my head… but I’m tone deaf. Yet, it keeps getting in my head. 

And you know what I  do when I can’t get something out of my head?  

Tag.

You’re it. 

In all fairness, I don’t see myself morphing into a country song writer at 51.  A concert violinist? Absolutely.  It is on my list of things to do.  But, I have been turning it about in my head, in the radience of clarity.  

Spirit of story, come now and rescue me.

I am a five time, six tba, with seven on it’s tail, published, dyslexic author.  And story, coregraphed words, are my life.  Could I go back to the “special” classroom at the end of the hall, and tell 3rd grade Jami, “It will matter that you do well”?

I would not.  

No, I would not break the happy place where she dwelt in the silence of story.  Perhaps, although I hate to bother her, I might whisper, “Stay in there, create more, dream bigger, it will matter that you believe in magic.” 

Yes, even at 51, I would tell 3rd grade Jami, follow the spirit of story, she will take you… everywhere.  

I have written more words in the last year than in the six prior combined.  And it was my literary agent that reminded me, they can just be for you, you don’t have to perform.  

And I realized, that is what can happen.  

But I never want to exploit the spirit of story.  

To exploit the spirit of story would minimize it.  Like the F word.  It kind of fizzled.  Remember, back when saying it was just the last straw?  The final BOOM BABY.  And now, it is… meh.  

And so, our powerful brains are seduced and lulled into visions of audiences, waiting for the next grand performance as we scroll and filter and record and delete. I fell under that spell, and the spirit of story, the magic of creation that it is, the diplomat of all creativity, let me try it my way, the world’s way.  

It would matter that I do well…  

Sometimes it is nice to share locations and words.  I am writing this now, off the cuff, for what reason?  I sat back and whispered the words, 

Spirit of story, come now and rescue me.

I am in a beautiful town house, with a view of Manhattan.  

The windows are open and all else is best described as crisp, gold, blue, and remarkable. My husband is upstairs with the same view, working on the marketing for my latest book “Five Minutes on Charles Street.” 

My two young sons are playing legos and watching Monk re-runs.  

Yesterday we found my art and my daughter’s art in Homegoods. Tonight, we will host my daughter and her roommates for dinner.  

None of that  is a brag.  It is a cognitive and definitive whimper of thanks.  

And I don’t want to miss the story I am living, to feed a world that is virtual. A world that forgets to write words, say nice things, and appreciate the smallness of self, the enormity and power of the human mind, and the ultimate force that drives us… love.  

I love the spirit of story.

It delights me when it pops out of little cafes and dress shops. Randomly picking a passerby that will appreciate the idea, foster and nurture it.  

That is every reason to write, to read words, to speak peace. It is resolution to the confusion within. I acknowledge, I believe the spirit of story is this mystical, angelic being, a part of the creator that created me creative. And I assume the spirit of story loves when it is shared among like minded lovers of bold ideas and page turning seductions. 

I believe the spirit of story revels in word play and fragrant creativity.

But consider this. If the mind is fed constantly, streamed in whatever is the latest G, what room is there for the spirit of story? What place is there to imagine a peaceful world, where war is so obsolete, there is no radar? 

When are we inspired with conscious wisdom? If we are not cracking the spine on the latest thriller, or putting pen to paper and writing words, words just for us? Words that don’t need to perform? And yes, perhaps I have been decisively obscure. But is it not a relief to read and think and reflect? 

Before we communicated with our adrenaline drenched finger tips; before, when autocorrect wasn’t to blame, what did we imagine?

And is not the imagination the space where every prayer is cultivated and every dream chooses the spirit to follow, life… or death?   

Perhaps I should only write fairy tales, or simply stick with fiction.  But the scholar in me battles with the creative and the creative with the empath.  

When I look at the view from where I write this the spirit of story reminds me, it all starts with an idea, a vision that craves to be seen.  

J

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