The Voice, Not Mine

I have been meaning to write a book. That is, I want to write a book. The story nags at me to be written as it writes itself in my head. I just have no voice to get it onto paper. I lost it, my voice, not the paper. I know this because I have lots of paper, and I once heard my voice, but not lately.

My voice once clacked from a typewriter years back in college. It sang the song of a story, written not long after dropping the fourth or fifth Long Island Ice Tea at a bar, who’s name I no longer remember. I think it was the story who dropped the glass and not me, as I recall, it was the story who distracted me.

It sang out of obligation to the deadline of a class I had to pass. My head ached the next day as I read the story to the class. I remember the discussion of all the things the class had to say, the things they saw, what the characters were thinking...I did not put those into the story. They were already in the class's heads. When asked to explain the main character’s actions...I replied, "That is what he had to do, he is who he is, It is his voice, not mine."