Giving away the story

I have a childhood friend named Forrest who is adamant, and I use that in the man-of-steel manner, that at no time in or around his person, should the ending of any story ever be told. 

Now, I know we all have these tendencies - but as an author, telling people about the ideas I am having works so well to grow the story, it's almost as much of a part of the process as writing it. 

It's like being part of a book club for which there is no book. The end result, is really amazing. All day I think about different little layers and details, then at night when I get home, I hammer them into existence on my keyboard. 

It's a good thing Forrest lives ten hours away. It makes it almost impossible for me to ruin the story for him. 

Not that I wouldn't really enjoy seeing more of him, because I would - he's an awesome person, through and through - but he would intensely hate me giving away the story, even a tiny little piece. He probably wouldn't even want to read this post, writing a story about giving away a story would almost certainly carry some of the same weight for him.

No, Forrest would have me run out of his sight on a rail, suitably tarred, and/or feathered, as appropriate. Not really, but he would fix me with a look of imminent mood change, and I would relent, naturally - he is my friend after all. 

Many of you might want me to share the story I'm writing, think about where it's headed next... but there's a double-edge to that wicked sword we just found, and it's a good thing I noticed, because you might have cut us both to ribbons. Here, put that blasted thing down before you hit the cat.

What was I saying? Ah, yes. 

As an author, it's really hard for me to share the story as it unfolds, because at this point, it's a fragile little structure, timid and shy, and prone to instantaneous failures of existence. As I talk about it, or think out loud, some times I run the risk of listening to myself.

We should always, in all ways, try to avoid that. Each and every one of us sounds like buffoons, so it makes it easier. 

As much as I might want to tell you the type of story I am writing, I can't. While many of you would enjoy being part of the process, watching the the next book grow and form, in little samples, snippets, out-takes and cutting room casualties... at least one of you will be Forrest, and others will appreciate his fervent guardianship of the story to lesser extents.

Heck, maybe we all do, deep down.

(If you want me to include you in the super secret inner-circle group of friends I send random thoughts and ideas to, leave a small, brown paper wrapped package behind the bridge on the next moonless night. I'll be the one wearing the carnation mustache, and the crimson tie. Don't tell Forrest. I am looking at you, Dale.)