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    • CommentTimeFeb 28th 2008
    Had a strange late night conversation this week. The illustrator and I plotted and schemed about our project, then pondered the conspiracy against Angelina Jolie..

    Then I elaborated on a post I was going to make on the workblog- the difference between calling my posts writing vs. calling them stories.
    I've always said storytelling is what I do, that I'm really not a writer. I wasn't sure if I was making my point. I elaborated further, pointing out that in real life the act of telling a story is a conversation. When I'm done telling my bit, there's often a counterpoint or a reaction, a chance for someone to tell their story to me. Further.. those stories.. the stories I receive in exchange.. are often far more personal and intimate than anything I might have related.

    What this says about me: I'm a coward, but an unapologetic one. Gutless, but not the least bit concerned about it. Shameful, and shameless. I guess the latter would be the consequence of being an atheist raised in Catholicism.

    The consequence of storytelling? We talked about that too. My audience hardly ever knows me, clearly they have no guarantees that I won't betray or humiliate them with what they told me over a pint (or the virtual IM pint, in the case of the internet). That charges me with an intense amount of responsibility, and I suppose to a more questionable extent, an amount of humility to live up to. I can't say I'm particularly humble or decent, or even clever enough to convince people I'm not a wolf in sheep's clothing. Seems they've already worked that out for themselves.

    * * *

    No idea why I'm in such a strange frame of mind. I'm in a good mood, have already had a laugh today thanks to an e-mail message. It's beautiful outside, I haven't missed my train (and there it is...)...

    - Z
    (via mobile)