Was I born to do this? To find an audience? To tell my story, any story?
Or did I come to storytelling by way of heritage? Because I am my father’s daughter? Because he told stories?
I must have an audience or storytelling isn’t—no can’t happen. I volunteer in my children’s school classes. I step forward when the professional storyteller hired by the school doesn’t appear. I have a voice. I know a story. I know many stories. I will be heard.
I send out flyers. I advertise. I create new programs. I establish a website. I am using my voice, telling stories. The stories flow from my speaking to their ears. I can do this.
I take a pencil in my hand. Scribbled notes become poems, essays, stories. I place my fingers on the keyboard. Ideas flow from my mind, through my fingers and onto the screen. The story is captured there. But who will read it? Who will take my written word and listen with their eyes and mind? My audience is invisible to me. But I believe, I know that they are there. Out there. Somewhere. Waiting for the story I will share.
I pick up a paintbrush. At first, I am copying someone elses vision, someone elses dream. I explore with my own choice of colors, subject matter. My own palette emerges. There is no voice, no words to share, but my images move from my canvas to the eye and heart and mind of another. I only see what appears on my paper. I trust that others will see and respond.
Was I born to do this? To tell stories with my voice? My pencil? My paintbrush? Is there someone or someones out there born to respond to me? Do they care? What difference will I make in their lives?
Was I born to do this? Did I emerge into this world already primed to be a storyteller? I have no answer, but this I know. I am a storyteller and I have stories to tell.