“Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.”

~ Sue Monk Kidd

I’m a storyteller, always have been. Before learning to read, I flipped through pages of books and fabricated my own versions of the tales. In art class, I drew what I saw: Words and the adventures within them. And if you dare ask me a question that requires more than a “yes,” “no” or “don’t bother me” answer, you’ll likely wind up with a story.

While I meet interesting people and have sometimes fascinating, if not just odd, experiences, the stories aren’t always mine. I enjoy sharing the tales of others, whatever way they tell them —  through words (in short or in novel form), music, films, images or methods not yet fathomed.

Not long ago, I went to an event at the new Lightbox in Detroit and encountered a broad range of performance art. Breath dance opened the show as audience members sat back to back to feel the breath of the person behind him. A woman, through movement not quite dancing and not quite acting, gave birth to a string of spoons. Poetry and music intertwined as it pored melodically from another, and she drew tears from us.

Then there’s change. It’s hard. I don’t like it and don’t always respond well to it, which makes it an intriguing other I’m compelled to explore — through stories.

That’s what you’ll find at wildemerewriter.com. If nothing else, I hope it compels you to explore… something.