As a writer, this is my toolbox. It holds everything I need to construct a
good sentence, fit them together and form a sturdy paragraph. Whenever I stack enough paragraphs together a
story is built. If it is a good enough
story, it will pass the test of time. It
will get told and retold. It will be
passed on from generation to generation.
Story telling is as old as the
hills. Great tribal chiefs told of
massive buffalo herds, roaming the countryside.
They spoke of cruel winters with harsh north winds and long before them,
caveman told stories with cave drawings.
The problem with my toolbox is
the same problem inherent within the stories themselves, time. With the passing of time comes technological
change. The language of the day evolves,
and so must the toolbox. The cave drawings
of yesterday are the emojis of today.
The massive herds of buffalo have morphed into prepackaged, processed
genetically altered foods, complete with
all the flavor and excitement of yesterday’s buffalo.
Reluctant to continually modify
my tools, I have opted to be content speaking with yesterday’s voice. My stories may hint at progress, but my value
systems remain anchored in the past. In
fact, this blog is as big a step as I am willing to take, even knowing that my
read-by date will soon expire.
Z. Corwin
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