My Thoughts Are Always Occupied With Stories

I have always had a storyteller’s mind. It’s always whirling, taking things in, processing, rephrasing, rewriting. I’ve always enjoyed telling stories – via by page, by pen to paper or finger to keyboard to screen.

My friends in grade school used to call me The Weaver, for I’d spend sleepovers and slumber parties weaving stories of gore and horror, terrifying the socks off my friends better than any B-grade horror flick could. I’d have them deeply believing that the ghost of a little boy who died from the measles in the 1800s truly does wander my back deck, where the old farm house used to be. Despite the fact that we’d bulldozed the old farm house to build our new, modern home, the ghost remained, unable to find peace because he was gone too young and missed his mother. He wants revenge for us destroying the only home he’d ever known.

If you listen carefully, you can hear his shoes tapping against the wood on the deck. Tap…Tap…Tap…

My old barn was built into a hill. They used to keep farm equipment and hay on the “top” floor of the barn (that rested on top of the hill) and livestock in the bottom. I’d tell them of how a man accidentally drove his farm tractor through the back half of the barn, and how it had landed on him, crushing him. I’d tell them at 6:32 PM every night, you’d hear the sounds of an old tractor, wood cracking, the screaming and the crunching sound of bone and flesh. Then, I’d lead them to the barn, ten minutes to that time, and show where it happened: the wood that was a little newer than the rest of the bar, replaced from the very accident I described. They’d scream and run away, never getting to the 6:32 PM time to hear the supposed ghost incident replay.

It never did – there never were any noises or ghosts in the barn.

I used to narrate my days when I was bored, in my head. I’d walk and narrate that I was walking. I’d talk to someone and narrate that I was talking to them. I used to do this quite frequently, until the urge to write became so strong that I started journaling and writing out actual stories involving characters and people who were not me.

I started blogging; telling my representation of life events. My version: what I saw. I took pride in my ability to express myself through blogging; I’ve always blogged with a raw honesty that transfer in to my books and other writings. I own my truth, and I own the fact that my truth isn’t the only truth or the only side. We all respond to things differently; we all cling to certain memories of importance.

There are two sides to every story, and then there is the truth. It’s hard to see the truth when your side, your representation of that situation, is all you can see and feel and touch.

Still, because I have a storyteller’s mind, I often “rewrite” things. I rewrite them so they make sense. I rewrite them to internalize them. I don’t intend to switch words around, to twist them like knives in flesh – but my mind is always whirling with stories, how I can incorporate this wound into a different story, how I can best describe what this feels like. It’s how I process and how I mentally block and what inspires the darkest pages of my words.

Separating truth from fiction gets incredibly difficult to do when encased with emotion and I am an emotional person. I am an empath that feels things so profoundly. I ache with emotion; I brim with emotion, and because I have the storyteller’s mind, I just want to pour these words from my heart and my soul, to bleed them out and make something beautiful out of the pain.

jchanniganJ.C. Hannigan is a married mother of two in her mid-twenties. J.C. is addicted to coffee, Instagram selfies, Cadbury Mini Eggs, and Dill Pickle chips (only not together, because that would be gross). She has been blogging for nearly 10 years, and won a Bloggie award some time ago. She writes new adult romance novels and currently has two books published, Collide and Consumed. You can find J.C. pretty much everywhere; except, it would seem…in the laundry room.

Visit J.C. on her website.

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