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I love to write … and there are times when I hate to write. But mostly I can’t help myself from scribbling something onto paper and wondering, “Where the heck did this come from?” Unlike painting (which I also love doing), where an image comes to mind and takes on a full life of its own before I draw it out and paint it, writing explodes in my head in some sort of manic rush of ideas that I have to hurry to record before they dwindle away like sparks from fireworks. And that’s the sum of writing for me: a mad dash to record some poem or story inside my head before it fades away.
People have asked, “Why do you write instead of making more paintings?” and I’ve told them, “Because I must.” It feels as necessary to my life as eating and breathing for me to excavate the words from inside my head and record them.
A bible passage about creation, where it is written in Genesis (I think) about the beginning of all things when “…the word was with God and the word was God” makes me wonder if it’s a godlike desire for all of us to create. After all, as a writer and painter, I create many worlds.
When I’m not creating stories and art, I read. Books are my virtual reality, just as movies are for many of my friends. I’ll read anything (though paranormal fantasy is my favorite) … sometimes fast with a devouring appetite of a madman, or sometimes slow, taking my time to pluck each sentence from the page and savor its taste before swallowing. Reading is, after all, a meal for the mind.
I also delight in listening to other writers and painters and engaging in soulful conversation with them. Unfortunately, that kind of conversation is a dying art form. (I envy the old-time artists that were able to sit around all night talking and debating the sciences.) I’m sure my delight in listening and conversing came from my childhood. I grew up at a time when families gathered in the kitchen and dining room and talked. My parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins always gathered around tables and shared anecdotes of all kinds. Table talk was something I looked forward to and cherished after every visit. And at summertime, table talk often ended at a campfire outdoors at night where ghost stories and other folklore took up the conversations.
My grandparents were good storytellers. They used their voices and body language to “act out” whatever they talked about. I think this came from the vaudeville era, since they lived during that time. And they knew how to hold one’s attention with words. Certain ones still send shivers up and down my back when I hear them.
Now, when I write my stories, I always imagine myself at either a kitchen table or a campfire, telling eager listeners my tales. For there, an artist and storyteller were born. And for that, I am forever grateful.
About the Author
Steven L. Campbell pens contemporary, paranormal fantasy in his undisclosed lair in northwest Pennsylvania. He has a bachelor's degree in studio art and graphic design, and graduated magna cum laude from college. He has been a wildlife artist for 30+ years and an avid reader of all genres of fiction since the age of 5. His passion for writing developed during high school, but it took a backseat after college while he painted art for a living. Now, passionate again about writing, his books feature characters living in Ridgewood, a fictional Pennsylvania town based on his own hometown where his relatives fueled his imagination with their ghost stories and urban lore, prompting him to write his own fantasy tales for everyone in love with the genre and young at heart to enjoy.
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Old Bones: A Collection of Short Stories Page 27