Telling, not showing

There is fiction in the space between
The lines on your page of memories
Write it down but it doesnt meanYou’re not just telling stories
There is fiction in the space between
You and me

There is fiction in the space between
You and reality
You will do and say anything
To make your everyday life
Seem less mundane
There is fiction in the space between
You and me ---Tracy Chapman


I thought I had finished the revisions on my Paper #1, yet as I drove to work this morning I heard this old Tracy Chapman song. Is this perfect for a discussion about dialectics or what? I always thought the space between my life and reality a little differently. I will do and say anything to make my everyday like seem more mundane. Spoken from a true spaz. My life runs away with the wind and I often yearn for those quiet, dull, mundane nights. No children. No dogs. No house. No worries.

As far as telling these stories…I always feel that my writing does not do my life justice. I have such vivid memories of events and people in my life—but the lines on my page of memories—doesn’t feel complete. It is always too much tell and not enough show. The best thing I found out about the Blog is that there is a delete button, something I plan to hit when this class is over. But for now, some brief insights into stories I could tell.

My father was an pilot in the United States Air Force. The first time I was a passenger in an airplane, my father was doing the driving. That may sound like fun for some, but my dad was also a prankster. He liked to look back over his shoulder and fake an attempt to roll the landing gear down manually while exclaiming, “ I can’t make the wheels come down, what will we do?” Very funny. I am afraid to fly to this day.

There’s more to this story. The summer of my junior year in high school my day bought an RV home and took a month off work. He told us we would be touring the western United States that summer. I threw a horrendous teenaged girl fit and cried about missing all the fun with my friends at the community pool. We toured every state west of the Mississipi that summer and I often think of that trip and the memories that we all shared. I especially think back on that summer when I start missing my father. He died of diabetes at the age of 55. He never knew his grandaughter.