I shouldn’t be one to talk about creating ambitious photography/writing/art projects. After all, this humble site languished for nearly the whole of 2010 until I threw $80 at the good people at Photocrati.com to let me use one of their templates. Plugs aside, I resolve something to myself for 2011, and I propose something to whoever may be reading this for January of that same year. I’m calling it “SnapStory1000″ until I come up with a better name or someone else does.
The idea is simple:
- Upload a photo, that you have taken, to your blog once per day and write a story involving it.
- NOT the story about how you took the picture, what techniques you used, what did the model say to you, etc. No, that’d be too easy, too cut and dry.
- HOWEVER, it has to involve the image in some way.
- Other than that, go nuts!
While I’m calling it “SnapStory1000,” that is not to imply that there’s any word count rule of any kind. Indeed, if there was a 1000 word rule, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to meet my own expectations! I guess if the number has any meaning beyond easy googlability, it’s that I wish there to be at least a 1000 people engaged in this meme. While it’s most likely a pipe dream, it’s best to not let aspirations be constrained by reality.
To get myself revved up, my first entry into this blog will be the start of my own SnapStory1000, taking over the course of a week:
“Roads are just lines on a map. You gotta make your own.”
Those words echoed into her ears. Over and over again. The irony didn’t escape her – to be able to make her own roads she had to shown the road to making her own road. A Möbius strip of advice. Creation begging more creation. Life will find a way, she once heard some science program telling her. Life will find a way.
Her breath weighed heavy in her chest. It’d been at least a week since she’d been able to stop running. Life had found a way, alright.
The asphalt before her was surprisingly intact. Then again, this patch of land was a former part of the Outskirts Research City. What a disaster that turned out to be. Still, the vague reminder of the home she was running from couldn’t help but compel her. The zebra stripes of the street seemed to dance in her blurry eyes, shifting up and down in a dance that swayed to the melody of the wind whistling through the stillness.
Still, this road was not hers to walk on. You gotta make your own.