A Good Story

It was in the closet.  The one that was just around the corner from the entryway, across from the pantry.  The closet with boxes of things packed away that would only come out seasonally, Easter decorations, Christmas tree, wrapping paper and Thanksgiving decorations.  Along with things that rarely came out was the smell of things too long confined to spaces too small.  Tucked away on one side was the rod from which hung all sorts of articles of clothing that were infrequently or never used, but too good to throw out.  The garments were packed so tight that it was hard to pull any one thing out and not also dislodge its neighbors on either side.  There was a tuxedo that was too small for some and too big for others, waiting for someone to grow into it.  There was the old hunting jacket that smelled of leather and canvas.  There was the once used graduation robe, cap and sash.  There was the snow pants that still smelled new having seen little action. 

And there was the coat.

I don’t know where it came from or how I managed to find it amidst all the mess.  It was long, coming all the way down to my ankles.  The sleeves were too long and if they weren’t rolled up my hands wouldn’t come out the ends of them.  Because they were so long I could tuck them into themselves and hold them tight and close of the opening.  It had an inside pocket that intrigued me and was perfect for hiding any treasure I might wish to conceal.  Being so disproportioned for me I was able to pull my arms from the sleeves and into the body of the coat with plenty of room.  It was brown, soft and perfect.

I loved to put it on when it was cold, gray, and rainy outside.  I would button and zip it all the way up from foot to head.  I would put on my roller skates and go out into the rain fully protected and totally safe.

I loved to wrap myself up in that old coat because it enveloped, encompassed, and surrounded me. It made me feel safe.  I became a part of it, as if inside of it I was in an entirely new world whose boundary was just big enough to let me in.  As a child I wondered if that was how turtles felt, having their own little world that they could carry on their backs.  They could pull themselves into their shells and retreat to their safe space separate from the world.

I think that I love a good book and a good story for the same reason.  With a well told story it’s like I slip on a perfectly fitting coat that to surrounds me, makes me feel included and part of something.  A good story puts me in a new world keeping the real one at bay.  A good story is one that is hard to take off and leave, it’s one that draws the reader back and invites them to become wrapped up with it again.

Those good stories are worth finding and keeping close.  They make it worth searching through the ones that don’t fit quite right, don’t feel right, are ugly or out of style, too big or too small, poorly made or over decorated.

I want to write stories that fit like that old brown coat I found in that front little closet.