I know you sung the title of this post in Willie Nelson's voice. I did. I can't even help myself. The litany of voices that my brain seems capable of mimicking is astounding. In fact, I feel as though I rarely think in my own voice, when I'm not shuffling through the thought pictures that are my norm. I love reading stories to my kids because these voices flow out of me as I'm reading as fluidly as though I practiced beforehand. It gives me an excuse to excise these vernaculars, accents, cadences, and pitches that aren't organic to my upbringing. Otherwise, I end up being an awkward oddity that many in my life don't realize I can be. This serious sister will be in the middle of saying something, then suddenly bust out with a quip that I borrowed from someone, somewhere, or maybe mashed up from someones, somewheres.
Its these voices that remind me that I have a story to tell. Dozens, if not hundreds, of people living inside my head screaming daily to get out and have their voices heard. To hold them in is pure madness. I'm pretty sure the DSM V has a name for the craziness going inside of me. Letting them out though, that's breaking myself into dozens of pieces and methodically putting them back together again on paper. The story is mine, but the voices that tell that story belong to the pieces of me.
I've needed to come apart so badly. There are a myriad of things that have kept me busy, I won't go into that right now, but I'm in pain from them. Those things were necessary and amazing, but I need to write the same way I need to be surrounded by leafy green trees and I need to run through the night air.
I have pen to paper and fingers to keys again. I will finish my book, and my story will be heard. Once more, I'm starting the painful journey of breaking apart and coming together again. Finally.
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