For Our Writers & Readers

Hi Everyone!

I have been feeling compelled to post something on Storytellers for a long time for the simple reason that I miss it.

I miss the supportive atmosphere that surrounded our writers, all of us commenting, liking and sharing each other's work along with our readers, but that brings me to what I want to write about.

I get all my really good ideas in the shower, and if you ask another writer, I bet they will say the same. Well last night, I stepped out of the shower with absolutely no ideas to the point where when I noticed the Q-Tips out of the corner of my eye, at first I thought, Hmmm...should I write a horror story where the cotton swabs awaken in the middle of the night, grow legs and stab people in their eardrums? No, no I shouldn't. 

And that completely dumb internal dialog led me to think about our other writers. See, part of my problem right now is that I am in between getting one novel ready to be released and about a quarter of the way through writing a second one.

But I know when I first started working on my own blog after years of not writing, coming up with ways to get my ideas on "paper" seemed not only impossible, but also absolutely terrifying.

There were times when I felt like I was going to puke after hitting the publish button. There were times when I thought that everyone would hate what I wrote, and maybe some did. In fact, I know some did. I have a very dark sense of humor and strong opinions. Not everyone is going to like that, and that's okay. I know lots of others did like it. It's all a part of the game.

Thing is, the more you do it, the more confident you get, the less of a fuck you give, and I can promise you that your writing abilities will only improve.

Please know that not everyone who really does like your work is going to "like" it on social media.

To our readers, please remember that a simple like, share or comment on a post you genuinely did enjoy give our writers, especially our newcomers, one of the best feelings in the world. It's kind of like the street performer whose hat you throw some change into. If our writer's words entertained you for just a little while, it's not a high price to pay.

So to our current and future writers, if you have a story in you, let it out on here and I promise that you will be supported by our Collective.


To our many readers who do all of the above, we all thank you so, so much!


Much love,
Melissa

Ladybug: The Lottery of Life

As odd as it may sound, some days I want to quit.  I want to throw up my white flag and just surrender…go be a drifter or even a hobo; taking train to train, beach to beach.

See, the older I get the more things hit me. They hit me like a ton of bricks to the stomach. I feel everything deeper as time goes by and that feeling of uncertainty becomes a more frequent affair. 

When you come from where I have come from and been where I have been - simple things like scrolling my Facebook feed can mean the difference of a tragic day or not. 

It's almost daily I see things like “RIP” or "I can't believe it; I just saw them yesterday…”. Because that's just how it is when you come from a city like Somerville where overdoses happen all too often. 

Amidst the death and sadness, though, is a sense of camaraderie. Where everyone knows everyone and, regardless of what park you spent your summers at, in the end we all came from the same exact places…homes with secrets and struggles. 

Most of us with our reduced and free lunches, free after school programs and even free field trips.  We all had the same set of values: we stuck by each other through it all. 

We come from a certain type of community that if you didn't grow up in it - you wouldn't understand it. That's why when a fellow kid from "The Ville" passes it's not that everyone "comes out of the woodwork”, I think it's more than that. I think it's something deep inside of us thinking exactly what I'm thinking at this moment…"Why them and not me forcing us to come together as one?".

I'm sure you're thinking "what the f*ck is this girl babbling about?". And frankly, I am not even sure I know. However, what I do know is that sometimes I feel better when I write. Writing helps me cope with the tragedy and sadness I see so often. It helps me cope with the guilt. Because, in all honesty, I do feel guilty.  

I feel guilty that somehow I have had the winning numbers in the lottery of life. While others, who were no different than myself, succumbed to their illness. What made them different than me? How did I manage to do the impossible (to get and STAY sober)? I know it was not for lack of effort. Because I know my fallen brothers and sisters suffered just as I had. And God did they suffer; longer, harder, and truer. 

Which is why, for me, I have to wonder who really wins the lottery of life?

Submitted Anonymously by the widely celebrated author of the Ladybug series.

Let Me Scream

I want to write

But, I require perfection. It has to be just right.

I can put something down on paper that seems exactly what I want.

Walk away from it only to return loathing it.

What gives?

I get trapped. Stuck in my own thoughts.

It's not writer's block because I have plenty of material.

Which is a curse in and of itself.

I try to write for myself. "It's healthy," they say.

Well, it's not.

How will my mental diarrhea be interpreted?

Why do I care?

I am the only reader.

I was a born exhibitionist.

I flourish from praise but sink with criticism.

Maybe it's my O.C.D.

Maybe it's narcissism.

I want to create.

Draw things the way I perceive them.

Paint as abstract as it gets.

But my brain doesn't allow for it's imperfections.

I try to just "let it go."

No, that's not happening. 

I hate disappointing myself.

I don't like people telling me something I have done.

"Came out so good."

Bull shit! That's a lie. 

You have to say that.

You are too human to say anything to the contrary.

I want to compose.

Every note is too flat or too sharp.

I can't allow it to make sense.

The rhythm is too slow. The beat is too fast.

Fuck, I need another cigarette.

Now I can't remember that last harmony.

Fuck it!

I don't want to write.

I don't want to create.

I don't want to compose.

LET ME SCREAM!

Russell Reich

Russell survived the battle of the demons inflicted by the streets of Somerville, Massachusetts. 

He skipped town with his girlfriend, landed in the Midwest and became a father of two boys.

He has always had a knack for things that inspire. 

Mainly music, but anything that took him away from the bad memories or the hustle & bustle 

of work/home life could evoke him to create just about anything he had the time for.