The Rebirth of a Storyteller

Writers, whether journalists, pundits, non-fiction biographers or novelists are just storytellers.  Storytelling is an art.  If you tell stories around a campfire, about a cannibalistic mountain dweller with a hook for a left hand and a fondness for chainsaws, or around the dinner table about your grandpa Phil who stormed a pillbox on Iwo Jima, they all have one thing in common.  That common thread gives readers the impetus to hear what you’re saying. 

Stephen King said recently that stories are “found things”.  He also said that writers just “take dictation”.  He has said similar things in the past, because what authors do is find that thread, that common hook, that belts the reader into the seat and says “Hang on, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”  Over the years this has held true for me. 

Don’t get me wrong, existentialism isn’t my strong suit, but as a writer I, have a storyteller’s heart.  I’ve done it my whole life.  As a child, I would sit and listen to my Dad, Grandfather and other family members tell stories while sitting around the family dinner table post-meal.  It shaped me and, at four, I began to tell my own stories.  I’m sure my tales of playing in the garden with Tonka trucks didn’t have them hanging on my every word, but I tried to make them interesting. 

I started telling stories to my friends when I was still in my single digits.  I could entertain, even scare, with a casual word or phrase.  I figured out the value of the English language and how much gold one could excavate from a turn of the phrase. 

For years, I wrote stories in private, showing them occasionally to others only when I felt they were ready.  Believe me, no writer ever thinks his or her work is perfect, not unless narcissism has completely clouded their brain.  But I digress.  I was afraid of letting others see what I had written for fear they would think I was sick, twisted or even worse, without a shred of talent.  Even when I showed my stories to others and they loved them, I was still apprehensive about putting things out there.  But, I continued to write knowing deep down that writing was my future.  I planned and schemed for the day when I would step out of the darkness and do my first book tour.  Sadly, it has taken a long time for me to reach this level of confidence. 

Yesterday, while flipping through radio channels, I came across an old Jerry Lee Lewis song called “Middle Age Crazy”.  I remember the movie this song was attached to, (I think Bruce Dern was in it, but I remember Ann-Margaret clear as day) which has nothing to do with writing, but I’m forty-six and embarking on a new life.  In a round-a-bout way this is exactly what the movie was about.  I don’t remember whether the movie was good or not; I was too busy drooling over Ann-Margaret.  But I can say that publishing my debut novel at forty-six is daunting and scary.  Writing a novel is kind of like giving birth to a watermelon.  In a lot of ways, it’s painful and messy and hopefully worthwhile.  The first draft is the infant, unaffected by outside forces.  As the rewrites and edits are completed, that infant grows into a toddler, then a teenager and finally an adult.  Any writer that says “I delivered my first draft to the publisher and I never edited it” is a liar.  You are constantly trying to make things better or you’re not a writer.

But if you’re not a storyteller, you’ll never make it as a writer.  Storytelling is a gift, but it’s also kind of like being a detective.  You find one thing out, create a possible narrative for the story, then the evidence tells you where to go next.  Before long, you have a story that is hopefully what you wished to tell.