The Stories

I am wrapping up teaching a course on Myths today. And I want to try and wrap up the perplexing course material for them. I already know I will fail, and that the one very mouthy student will tell me I'm wrong, or "that depends on your belief." I have said over and over that the urge to form language, to communicate and to transmit ideas and stories is deeper than religion, belief or even conscious thought. We dabbled in Jung, but again, "that's just his opinion."

What I see, though, is that we are hungry for stories. HUNGRY. Turn on the TV and see hundreds of shows during a week that are stories - ongoing, long, slow, quick, one-episode, mini-series, feature-length, dramatic, funny, intriguing, "real" and fictional. Look at the bookshelves in the airport: magazines, books and newspapers loaded with stories. Tales of people in other places and other skins. In fact, it is an embarrassment of riches. We are story-laden, media-heavy in modern culture.

Something must be missing when the mass quantity of stories does not satisfy us. We continue to seek out new stories, new twists on the old plots, new characters for whom the same old story is playing out. (I'm thinking of a particular athlete whose story of infidelity is all over the news, even NPR. STILL. After a week.) Replace the main character in that story with a politician? with a desperate housewife? with a car salesman? Pretty much the same story, heard on E! News, talk shows, Oscar-winning feature movies and the headlines of the tabloids. And yet we listen, we rubberneck, we gawk and we stop to listen, or to read the headlines or the entire article (if we’re waiting at the dentist’s office).

Why? Why are we so obsessed with stories? What is missing?

My belief, based on a little reading and a little life experience, is that we are indeed missing the vital cultural components to properly absorb the "meat" of the myth. In the same way that rice and beans complement and provide a "complete" protein (remember Diet for a Small Planet?), too many stories and not enough deep structure cause cravings and even dysfunctional consumption of our stories.

Even Joseph Campbell talks about this quest for stories, the desire to tell and hear the stories, even to re-enact the major tropes of human culture in our own lives. The hero quest, the revenge story, the creation/flood/recreation motif. He writes about the "monomyth" that guides all of human striving. Clifford Geertz (and others) called it "deep structure" and Jung called it “the collective unconscious.”

True, we have plenty of stories but if we are not skilled enough to read the purpose and structure of these stories, if we cannot derive meaning from them a satisfying way, or learn to live, to pursue a proper practice, we will continue to binge and purge ourselves on stories.

Will the stories ever end? Will we ever get our fill? Not likely – without the rituals, taboos and prescriptions from our ancestors' time, we might understand our lack and supplement our stories with academic knowledge, but we won't be able to digest the moral fiber and make it a part of ourselves.

Campbell’s answer to those who wish to understand, to know the meaning of life: “Follow your bliss.” This cryptic answer is not satisfying and does not provide that key to why we crave stories so much. But it does however suggest that simply by doing our own lives, by creating our own story authentically, we will be participating in the mythmaking, in the storytelling, rather than consuming the easy-to-chew but ultimately unfulfilling vicarious stories of others.

Follow your bliss. Write your own ticket. Make your own kind of music. Do it “your way.” Or else, continue to live an attenuated, mediated, voyeuristic, shallow life. (Next piece of homework? finding the thinkers who have written about this “hell in a handbasket” view of media.)

When it's all said and done, however, we do still have the stories. Charlotte's Web. Black Beauty. Sophie's Choice. War and Peace. The Exodus. To Kill a Mockingbird. There are truths in our stories, and we cherish the capacity of these books (and retellings on film) to teach us and improve us. But only if we move from consumer to participant. One does not have to write in order to participate, but critical reading and active digestion of the stories might also be a way to "follow your bliss."

For now, following my bliss as a writer involves clearing away the fog and clutter, and getting to the real nugget of my novel.

And that is something I hope to get to... on Saturday, when the semester is over. For now, it's time to give a final or two.

Holidailies

I'm trying something new for this blog - it's a writing practice that might prove to be fruitful. But if not, then I'm dropping it in favor of my early Saturday morning writing session.




Holidailies is a group of bloggers who write each day of the holidays. There are some fantastic and interesting writers – some who inspire me, some who teach me, some who struggle with the same stuff I do.

My writing goal for December is to crack through the block I have. After NaNo, I realized that my characters are still bodies moving through space. They haven't yet come to inhabit themselves like humans. I feel like what I have is an elaborate character sketch with the promise of a plot. This is not a good feeling.

Of course, the goal also is to push past the procrastination and downright laziness, colored by my moody depression. I call it that because it does come and go like a mood, rather than a clinical cloud of deep grey fog.

Bust out the red and green and gold; stock up on the scented candles; and keep a pair of warm socks handy (my feet get cold in this office) because the holidays are coming, and I hope the Writing Santa brings me something lovely.

Edited to add: Welcome to the new readers from Holidailies! You can follow me on Twitter jcmaxwell and also Facebook J.C. Maxwell, where I occasionally say or post something worth reading.

Insomnia

Can I turn this insomnia into a novel? It would certainly make good use of the time during National Novel Writing Month, in which I am participating again this year.

The day before, though, I am just rattling around in my own head, filled with anxiety about my two jobs, filled with dread about my parenting, and (so typical for a NaNo writer) wondering how I can turn this inner turmoil and personal life crisis into word count.

But first things first: I am going to get a new keyboard, going to set up another computer in the office, and liberate my laptop semi-permanently from the desk. I do have a dual hookup box thingey, where I used to have the lad's PC and Mac sharing the same monitor, but he stopped using the Mac a while back, and I took the computer when the laptop was in the shop.

Make no mistake: the laptop is on its last months of service. I may have to take it in as the mouse and touch pad are sorta hosed.... hmmm, it started after the last "fix" now that I think of it.

I will also spend a good deal of time cleaning house this weekend, in advance of starting to write at midnight Nov. 1. Either this will provide a "clean slate" for novel writing, OR it will remove certain procrastination objects from my sight.

However, all of this busyness comes at a price, and all of this insomnia exacts its own pound of flesh (but in reverse). I'm overweight-er than ever, and desperately in need of a vacation from "crunch time" at two jobs. One job will let up around Dec. 5th, and the other not until Jan. 23.

So, yeah, I'm pretty insane right now, and doubly so because I'm taking on NaNo yet again. The fourth year for me. Mind-boggling! I'll be following Julia Cameron's rubric of three pages a day, and also walking my dog daily. That's the extent of my plan. Perhaps it's diabolically simple, or perhaps it's just simple.

Months and Months Ago

.... meanwhile, back at the ranch, Bess is trying to tame the wind.

I started teaching half-time, three classes, three preps AND I'm editing - with the workload increasing without check by anyone but my guilt. And thus, I haven't had one moment to write for myself.

Another thing happened and then didn't happen (a relationship), and that sapped my energy and ambition for writing, or any creativity at all. Which was a red flag. I don't know if it's possible, but I seek the kind of relationship where I am encouraged and inspired to hit the studio/keyboard/sewing machine, rather than feel burdened with yet another thing to schedule.

It's a combo of all these things NOT one in particular. And it's just life. As Joseph Campbell says, "work and family in themselves are a form of meditation." I just wish I didn't always feel so tired.

Tired to the point of insomnia and anxiety. Isn't that ironic!? So tired that you cannot get rest. Ha ha, big cosmic joke.

However, National Novel Writing Month is coming, and I believe it suits me. It suits me to try (essayer) and even if the exercise is simply to carve out the creative space, then it's good.

I've been sewing lately, creating a sea tapesty from marine quilting fabrics, using new (to me) products (WonderUnder, stabilizers, etc.), so again, this has helped me get to the creative zone.

I hope to be posting more as the novel progresses and the whining mounts.

Various Things and an Excerpt

It's been a month? Geez. Weird.

I've been dealing with pain and a lot of stress. I'm working on a deadline and have just another week of heavy action. After that, it's batting clean-up, and then vacation time around the 4th.

I haven't exercised at all, and will cancel my Y membership. I'm just not going and I need to face it. For all the wasted months of membership, I could have... well, it's money/water under the bridge.

But there is good news: I conducted a writer's workshop as part of my contract job, and got good feedback. It was fun putting it together, and presenting it.

Yesterday, we took a long day trip southwest of here, and instead of freeways, I ended up on some back roads. It was great! The boy was busy reading, so I had loads of head time.

And a short story formed itself. Double bonus, we got back into town in time to hear a short story writer on the radio talking about how short stories differ from novels in that a novelist must create a whole world, whereas a short story only has to capture a moment. That is my stock in trade, I think, capturing those ordinary, essential moments in life.

So this morning, I opened a window and started writing. Between 9am and 2pm, I wrote 5,400 words and have a complete first draft. I don't have a title yet, but here is an excerpt. I still need to work it over more, make it tight and better, but I'm really happy with the story.

Jeanine stabbed the sturdy little plastic gardening cultivator at the earth, digging its tines into the hard crust of earth over the abandoned square of weeds and paver stones. What she really needed was one with metal tines, sharper tines. But she was not up to making a special trip to the store for that. It would be ok. She didn’t mind taking longer at the digging. No one else was helping, so she could suit herself.

She had received permission, in the form of a shrug and dismissal, to start this little garden again on the grounds of her son’s private school.

“Parent-volunteers are encouraged to help in a variety of ways at Mercy Heights Academy. Share your time and talents with us to enrich student experience and help keep our tuition costs low.” That is what the parent handbook said. Jeanine noticed it one day when she was sorting through a bunch of papers. She has often wondered why no one took care of the little garden. It got great sun, was situated in a corner of the playground where kids wouldn’t simply run over it in their play, and a split rail fence had already been put up around it. It seemed like an easy project to tackle — one that Jeanine could handle. One where a sudden onslaught of weeping wouldn’t interfere with the task.

The dirt parted grudgingly where the cultivator raked it. Sandy but hard, with very few air pockets in it. This ground seemed to sparkle just a little. The soil in this area was known for mica, and perhaps that accounted for the sheen. Or it could be glitter from the children’s art projects. Maybe it somehow got out into the earth of this abandoned garden. On her knees, wearing a baggy pair of mom pants and a floppy hat, Jeanine worked the earth in the four little squares making up the larger square, preparing it for the seed packets she had brought today.

It was important for the kids to see things grow from seed.

The previous week, she had put seeds in clear glass baby food jars with a strip of wet paper towel. One for each child in the kindergarten. The jars had their names on them, done in fat black Sharpee with curlicues and squiggles. It was the lettering she used for cake decorating too.

But the garden needed to have fresh seeds planted, marked in neat rows. She had the popsicle sticks and tape to mark each row. She knew the children would come look at the garden — the more thoughtful ones, anyway. And would then be able to see the word “carrot” with the seed packet picture of a carrot.

The sun warmed her back as she worked. It had been several weeks since she spent so much time outdoors. It felt good. She wondered why she hadn’t remembered how much she loved being outside. So many things had been lost. She was still counting them. How long does it take to finish a miscarriage? It had been months and she was still realizing the things she had lost.

Update, Cinco de Mayo

I woke at 5:30 to go work out but was hit by a wave of dread and despair. Probably PMS though that doesn't help me shake it off. I ended up not going to the gym. Later in the day, I ate a very high calorie meal which satisfied me, and now I'm just left with the lethargy, left leg pain and twitching and a sense of hopelessness that I'll never be able to fully function again.

Yeah. Really conducive to writing.

I did get the NY Times puzzle really fast today, and I bought some M&Ms. Any port in a storm.

Just Here

I'm just here. Not writing. Exercising is hard, and makes my body hurt. Since I came up with the brilliant theory that I will hurt with or without exercise, I'm going with the "with"...

Lots of hot flashes at night, interrupting sleep.

Am reading Nicholas Sparks for tips on the craft of just getting on with the story, without all the business.

I expect that my period will start soon, and this is the pre-game show. When I am exercising, I feel strong and jockish... but things quickly deteriorate when I contemplate where my life has ended up.

I'm so far from home. So far from where I thought I'd be, or even imagined where I might be. So very far.