I have been a storyteller all my life. But my stories were for me alone. As a child I would fantasize like others, but my fantasies were elaborate and developed over extended periods of time. I would think out grand epics, spending months working on a story. As I grew older the fantasies grew more realistic, based in my own world or the world I wanted to experience. I would create stories to entertain myself, to explore philosophical concepts, to simply occupy my brain whose wheels were always spinning. It was just what I would do.
Sometimes I would put these stories down on paper, barebones outlines of ideas and characters. Whether these were short stories, or novels, or screenplays, was undetermined. They were just stories in my head. They were mine alone for I did not share them. I was afraid others would not see their beauty and magic. What was special to me might be mundane to the world. And perhaps they told more about me than I wished others to know. So the written stories remained incomplete, a representation of an idea in my head.
But now I realize it doesn't matter what the world thinks. I still write for myself, but I write the full story, in all its gory detail. And the story becomes much more. I write for the joy of crafting a complete picture, developing ideas fully, and making characters I know as well as myself. I write for the pleasure of choosing each word, for the appreciation of the nuances of language, and the simple thrill of creation.
I share these stories with no expectation, no demands upon my readers. My thoughts are laid out on the paper and you may take or discard what you wish. The ideas are there, buried in the facts of the story, and I will not provide any further explanation. I hope that you enjoy them; I hope that they may have some meaning for you. But in the end, all that matters is that they are my stories and I have told them.
Blair B. Burke
