Why Write or Read Stories?
"The thing about a story is that you dream it as you tell it, hoping that others might then dream along with you, and in this way memory and imagination and language combine to make spirits in your head."— Tim O'Brien
by Christopher Meeks
Why look at the stars? Why make banana bread?
Last month I gave an overview on structure, speaking about essays, mythic structure, and narrative. One question that started to emerge is why write or read stories? Why learn story structure in the first place? Using the Web to buy and sell objects is one thing—and interesting, well-written text can certainly help commerce—but what's the big deal about stories? How does that help you get ahead?
These questions led me, in part, to teaching English at a local college. I hated English classes in high school and most of college. It was only after one brilliant teacher encouraged my writing that I stumbled onto a passion and a career, and now I feel I'm returning the favor. My goal isn't to create a legion of fiction writers or playwrights but simply to show people that, hey, reading can be incredible—and writing is something you can do.
What writing can do for those who read it
I don't try to cover any historical period of English literature. I only want people to discover that reading fiction can be an experience. What kind of experience? That was my single question on the final test, after we spent the semester reading The Things They Carried, by Tim O'Brien, In Country by Bobbie Ann Mason, and "Soldier's Home" by Ernest Hemingway, among other pieces. The Vietnam War was our main subject. What follows are some of the thoughts by the students.
"Many history books talk about history as if it were some kind of game with written rules; this is way wrong. History involves people, and you can't talk in just facts and numbers. History isn't an exact science," wrote Gil. "With Vietnam, not a lot of us knew what it was like to be there, to wake up everyday into this terror, to walk around the woods with the feeling your next step may be your last. Stories bring us the cultures we never had a chance to be a part of, and they give us an opportunity to live the lives we never had. Stories are the least we can make for the next generations; stories are the most we can give the world."
I like that. Gil is suggesting stories are both an obligation and a gift. He makes a good point, as does Jose: "After reading The Things They Carried, I asked myself, 'How would I handle being sent to a war I did not believe in or did not want to fight in?' How would I handle facing the prospect of my death? Am I ready? We are all going to die—me, you, the whole class—but if we begin to discuss it openly, many would probably feel uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable just thinking about it. These were young men full of romantic notions, carrying guns, fear, anger…and the possibility of death. In life, everything is temporary, even life."
Wow! Jose is right. We are just temporary. Are we meant to buy so many fruit baskets from Harry and David on-line, then call it a life? "I shop, therefore I am?" Who knows—maybe. Good fiction has us consider these things. You must realize, there is no one answer. Jose walked into class the first day worried he was not "a writer," and just trying to figure out how he was going to make it through the semester, and he left with such thoughts. I'm impressed.
Eye-opening
"When you are able to write believably, your reader will fall gracefully into your story, awaiting the next twist," wrote Lori. "If you don't believe in your own story, don't expect anyone else to. This confidence can only come from experience." Further in the paper, she added, "I can't express the shock I felt as O'Brien shared his inner struggle in 'The Vietnam in Me.' He expressed his suicidal thoughts so vividly, that I found his instability alarming, much as people must have felt when Hemingway took his own life. Men with such talent and so much torment: truly eye-opening. "
Lori ended her paper with a poetic image of her own: "The journey through literature is a solo flight."
Tim O'Brien in The Things They Carried speaks of story, too. He writes, "Forty-three years old, and the war occurred half a lifetime ago, and yet the remembering will lead to a story, which makes it forever. That's what stories are for. Stories are for joining the past to the future."
Later in the book he writes, "The thing about a story is that you dream it as you tell it, hoping that others might then dream along with you, and in this way memory and imagination and language combine to make spirits in your head."
I encourage you all to read, if not write, stories. Make spirits in the head.
posted by Jackie Moore at
4:55 PM
2 Comments:
Great article-thanks for posting it, Jackie!
Here are my Ten Laws of Critique Groups:
1. Ask yourself why you want a critique group. What do you hope to get
out of it? You ought to have clear expectations going in, so that
you've got something to evaluate the benefits later. Some people
basically want to hang out with other writers -- more or less the same
reason they attend writers conferences. There's nothing wrong with
that, and if that's your reason for joining, you should easily find a
group that fits your needs. Others really want a dedicated group of
professional writers to take a careful and thoughtful look at their
material. If that's what you're after (and, being a member of the
View, I'm going to assume that's the majority of you reading this
little missive), you're going to need to put a lot more thought into
your group.
2. The value of a critique group is based almost entirely on the
membership. So look for people who are AT YOUR LEVEL or maybe just a
bit better than you (if your ego can take it) and talk to them about
the group. Basically, people want to know what the commitment will be
(a weekly or maybe twice a month meeting that lasts a couple hours),
what the expectations are (that members will actually READ the other
member's writings before coming to the meeting), and what the benefit
is to them (you'll hear advice for improving your writing).
3. Personally invite people to participate. Don't put an announcement
in the church bulletin or the local paper. One of the maxims of
organization is that people perform at the level at which they are
recruited. If you tell them "this is an open time for everybody,"
you're going to get the bad poets, the unteachable storytellers, and
the "I'm-in-pain-let-me-share-my-angst-with-you" types.
4. At one of your first meetings, set some guidelines. These can be
simple: You have to come as often as you're in town. You have to
submit your writing to others at least once a month (or every other
month). You have to read the work of others before the meeting. You
have to offer constructive advice, not just negative criticism. You
have to be willing to listen to everyone, even if you disagree with
their opinion. (And this is a perfect time to quote Jim Bishop: "A
good writer is not, per se, a good book critic. No more than a good
drunk is automatically a good bartender.")
5. Make sure the group has a leader. Without a ramrod, a critique
group turns into a therapy session for the most needy in the bunch.
6. I think creative, artsy writer types need a regular meeting time
and place. It offers discipline to the group. Of course, you all
disagree with that, being creative, artsy types. So sue me. You
probably also like William Faulkner, even though he is boring and
pretentious, but your college writing professor insisted he was deep,
and since you want to appear deep too, you tell people at parties that
you "loved 'Soldier Pay' but thought 'As I Lay Dying' lacked focus,"
or some such rot. Your group will meet at Starbucks once, at your
house once, then you'll skip a couple months, meet for dinner
somewhere, and fade away.
7. Above all, listen to criticism. Scottish people have a saying:
"Learn to unpack a rebuke." There's no point in joining a critique
group is you spend all your time defending your writing. So have a
rule that you have to listen to people's ideas, even if you're going
to ignore their insipid, Neanderthal advice. Jarrell once wrote, "It's
always hard for poets to believe that one says their poems are bad not
because one is a friend, but because their poems are bad."
8. Balancing that out is the notion that the membership in the group
dictates how much you'll listen. There's nothing worse than being in a
group with one guy you really don't like, and you don't respect his
lousy writing, but he always wants to talk for a half hour about that
terrible state of writing in CBA today. If you find people who are at
your level, both in terms of quality and experience, you'll find
yourself much more open to hear what they have to say.
9. Find a partner who really trust. One person, maybe two, that you'll
listen to. When he or she says to you, "Farnsworth, I know you love
medical mysteries, but I question your use of including each
character's dental records in your story," you'll know that they
aren't criticizing just to build themselves up. This your your friend.
He (or she) LOVES you. He's only saying it because he wants you to
improve your story. That one person will make you better, and you'll
find yourself becoming a much better critiquer of others and member of
a group. Really.
10. Insist people write. I was once in a critique group where people
argued about the merits of "Left Behind" and debated which trends were
hot in CBA bookstores, but we never really got around to writing
anything or examining each other's work. Write something each time,
insist others do the same, and submit that work ahead of the meeting
so that everyone can read it and tell you how awful it is. (Or how
wonderful it is, depending on how you're feeling today.)
In closing, a note from Lillian Hellman: "They're fancy talkers about
themselves, writers. If I had to give young writers advice, I would
say don't listen to writers talk about writing. Or themselves." -Chip MacGregor
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