Monday, August 8, 2011

The answer to a question I have forgotten

So my musings on the title aside, I'd like to muse about the actual stories I worked on in Advanced Storytelling.

We dove into combinatorics, which is to say, the art of putting things together. Gestalt, if you will. We dealt in personal stories and folktales, and I began by telling George MacDonald's The Light Princess. Initially I felt drawn to the story because of its sheer cheek; Mr. MacDonald's writing is irresistibly clever. But the more time I spent with it, the more I thought there must be some other attraction for me there.

It was not until I paired The Light Princess with a personal story about my experiences in Utah that I began to realize the draw of lightness. MacDonald's folktale deals with a young woman who has been deprived of her gravity (both literally and figuratively.) Gravity has no hold on her, so she floats about, lighter than a feather. And "she could never be made to see the serious side of anything." It seems like a nice enough life, but it is ultimately vapid and unsatisfying. [Warning: I'm about to spoil the ending for you] Through love, she is is made whole.

In my story about Utah, I approach the battle from the opposite direction. I considered myself over-burdened with gravity, saddled with extra weight and extra seriousness. Through self-acceptance, which must necessarily be a rebellious act of love in this social climate, I am made whole. Or at least, less fractured.

Putting the two stories together, I saw the thread of "conversations with gravity," and was stunned at how important that topic was to me. I fight, kick, scream, and spit in my battles with gravity. And the answer, all along, has been Love.

Love is the answer to a question that I have forgotten, but I know I've been asked. And the answer has got to be Love. ("Reading Time with Pickle," Regina Spektor)

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Advance, retreat, advance, retreat

That was a ridiculous first post. Let's try again, shall we?

Advanced Storytellling--I feel silly even saying it. It is strange, though, isn't it? I am making an academic study of something that people do without thinking. We tell stories at parties, at the dinner table, and to our children to put them to bed. We tell stories to market products (Cynthia was unhappy. Then one day she tried this yogurt. Her whole life improved!) We tell stories to get elected, to get out of trouble, to get into trouble, to get along with other people, and for so many other reasons, too numerous to list. We tell, and tell, and tell, and yet somehow I trip on the notion that I actually get to study this, to pursue a degree in this practice.

So here I am, studying something that people do all the time. In that respect, I suppose it's not so different from biology or sociology. People make an academic study of cellular respiration and cultural relativism. So why not storytelling?

I guess the hitch arises when I apply the term "Advanced" to the practice instead of the study. In other fields, when you get into advanced coursework, the titles get longer and frequently involve colons (Diversity of Life: Animals, Plants and Microbes or Odyssey of Cultres: Individual and Society in Spanish-American Literature.) These mechanisms signal that we are more specific, deeper into the topic. But when I say "Advanced Storytelling," it feels silly to imply that I'll be getting more specific about bedtime stories, deeper into cocktail conversation. But a way, that's exactly what I'm doing.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

So, right now I am taking Advanced Storytelling with David Novak, and I'm feeling stretched in the least-stressful way possible.

Also, Syd Lieberman is delightful.