Even if you don’t live great stories, you can write them.
September 9, 2013
I sit down at my typewriter every day, usually early, usually before the sun awakens, usually before the birds come to my feeder. It’s just me and the dark and a story. I wrote one chapter yesterday. I’ll write another one today. I write short chapters.
If it goes more than 1,500 words, I re-write them, and they become two chapters.
I like to write short. I think people like to read short.
We never have enough time.
Like Hemingway today me today, I slit the wrists of my imagination and wait for it to bleed. Some days it does. Some days, there is no blood. Some days, my imagination has left for a holiday.
I can’t wait for it to come wandering back. I have one option. I chase my imagination down, hog-tie it, bring it back, and put it to work.
I have a chapter to write today. Imagination may as well come along for the ride.
Those of us who spend our lives re-arranging fragmented words on a blank page that was blank only until we chose to fill it up often forget what we are and, more importantly, what we do.
“What do you do?” we are asked.
“I’m a writer,” we say.
“I’m a novelist.”
“I write books.”
If that is the case, then we live drab, dull, uninviting, and unimportant lives.
We fail to recognize what we really do.
We forget who we really are.
We’re not novelists, although we may write novels.
We’re not book writers, although we may produce books.
We are storytellers, plain and simple.
And if we aren’t, we should be.
Nicholas Sparks may not have said it first, but he said it best: Every great love starts with a great story.
A boy is in love.
A girl is in love.
Somebody is in love with a gun.
He’ll do anything for love or money.
We don’t care until we understand what roads they had to travel, what obstacles they had to overcome, and what struggles they had to endure in order to meet by chance instead of merely pass each other by on a dark and lonely night.
I leave others to produce great literature.
I have no interest in writing great epics.
Style is important.
So is the rhythm and poetry of the language.
And we strive to find a distinctive voice that is our own.
But, in the end, only the story counts.
As Laurie H. Hutzler wrote: “Storytellers are the most powerful people on earth. They might not be the best-paid – but they are the most powerful. Storytellers have the power to move the human heart – and there is not greater power on earth.”
A decade or so ago, Time Magazine published an article that said, and I paraphrase, the reason why the South has produced so many great writers is that Southerners don’t grow up carrying on conversations. Southerners sit around on the front porches of their homes in the shank of the evening and tell stories.”
I tell you a story about my pig.
You tell me a story about your pig.
And we think we’ve had a damn fine conversation.
No one preaches.
No one pontificates.
A story drives home the point that no one forgets. As Philip Pullman wrote: “After nourishment, shelter, and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.”
And so we do.
Nicholas Sparks did say: Every great love starts with a great story.
He’s right, but only half right.
Every great love also ends with a great story.
And when our time on earth is over, the only real gift we have to leave for those who follow are our stories.
A few we live.
The rest we write.