I went to see a storyteller at the library yesterday. He’s a storyteller, and he makes a living at it. That little fact to me is far more riveting than any of the stories he told.
Which is not to say that his stories were not riveting. But the idea of getting paid to tell stories stretches the world of the possible for me.
Maybe I lack faith. I feel like I have been dangling my feet off the high dive for a long time. I want to take the leap off, to trust the my talents as a writer, as a creative person, will be the water to catch me.
But I really believe that jumping off will kill me. I believe that if I let go of the stable, traditional job, I will be homeless and hungry.
So I sit, with my feet dangling over the edge, looking at the water below. FAR below. Sometimes, I see people run past me and leap off the high dive. They plunge into the water and are fine. But I can’t believe that the water would be there for me.
Like last night. Joel ben Izzy, professional storyteller, jumping off the high dive every day. Doing cannonballs, jackknives, perfect tens. Makes me drool with envy.
I wonder if my water might be there after all.