Liar, Liar, Tales Transpire

Once a liar, now a writer

I never would have thought to call myself a “writer”,

To put the words that pour so easily from my mouth to paper

And record them,

Save them,

Remember them.


My words were never something I wanted to keep.

My skill in speechcraft grew from lies –

Anything to get people to leave me alone;

To get my parents off my case;

To be perceived as smarter than my face would imply;

To become someone I was not.


Keeping those words would mean they could be found.

A reader could realize that I had been less than truthful with them;

That I had deceived them, and give them reason

To doubt my every past (and present, and future) word.


I never studied any writing styles and barely skimmed through poetry in class.

Planning my words ahead of time was not a thing I had to do.

I could talk your ear off while saying nothing at all and leave you thinking you’d learned something,

Some greater lesson or summarization of my character.

But to plan it? To sustain it? To make those words worthwhile?



Until one day the lie that came from my mouth carried with it a speck of truth.

A made-up story, intended to make another believe me cultured and interesting,

Built on the back of a more mundane tale, that carried with it the tang of adventure.

As I spoke, a whole tale unfolded –

Full characters and locales, quests and hopes and lessons and outcomes.

Those were the first words I wrote down.


I came to realize that writing these tales meant I would not speak them to others,

As I am not in the habit of repeating myself.

Each tale is “unique” in its own way – pieced together from small truths and greater fabrications, mixed with bits scavenged from others' minds –

But in this form they will hurt no one.

In this form, they are free.

The End

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