There’s a scene in Batman Begins where Bruce Wayne, living as a criminal in vaguest Asia, learns of the League of Shadows, and has to climb a mountain to find the secret temple where they train. He gets there and Liam Neeson asks him if he’s ready to begin. Bruce Wayne responds “I can barely stand.” Then Liam wallops him with a stick and says “Death does not wait for you to be ready!”
Liam’s been walloping on me a bit lately.
See, I fancy myself a writer, such as it is. And all writing is, arguably, storytelling of one sort or another. I’m fascinated by stories, the mechanics of them: pacing, escalation, the causal glue that holds the beats together. I love the themes, the way a story can resonate with you.
Another person who, I’m discovering, loves stories is the Little Man.
It started so casually, as all these things do. Snuggled in bed, Mama would tell him stories about when he was born, and he’d listen, then roll over and sleep. Then they’re read a book, and when it was done he’d ask what happened to the characters afterwards. Now, if we’re walking somewhere he wants a story. If we’re in the car he wants a story. If we’re eating at the table he wants a story.
The demand is relentless. Stories, like death, do not wait for you to be ready.
But it’s good. It’s a good problem to have. Every ninja starts as a white belt. I’m trying to view this as training – I used to think writing a blog a week was relentless and unforgiving. Then I thought writing 2 blogs a week was relentless and unforgiving. If I can survive stories on demand, 5-8 times a day, 7 days a week, then in a few months I should be writing all my young adult supernatural soft-core erotic novels during my bus commute.
The series will be titled You Only Live Forever. Or hashtag-YOLF.