The Art of Storytelling

The Mission of TAOS

All too often, we drift through life as passive vessels for other peoples' stories: politicians speak and we listen, religious leaders preach and we nod, scholars teach and we accept.  And why not?  After all, it is their leadership, their guidance, and their expertise, that sustain society.  In turn, all we need to give them are trust, faith, and belief. 

But what do we do when the stories provided to us are no longer enough?  When the tales of who we are,  how we came to be, and where were are going no longer speak to us as individuals, as communities, as nations? 

We can decry, yes.  Or we can protest.  And we can even fight.

What we should do, though, is reclaim.

Not just our hearts and minds but also the stories we cherish. The ones that give our life meaning. Purpose. 

Collaborative Storytelling is a celebration of this endeavor: through mutually owned and shared stories, we, as communities, can truly begin...

Creating Value: Determined Minds...

A Boulder, CO company called Altas Sports Genetics now offers a DNA test designed to predict a child's athletic capabilities. The test relies on three expressions, or genotypes, of the ACTN3 gene, to determine whether children are more likely to be power, endurance, or regular athletes.  As one parent put it, being able to know her son's aptitudes would enable her to make more effective decisions in regards to his extracurricular activities.  She evens cites his difficulties with taking direction during an indoor soccer game, proclaiming that it's frustrating to see him struggle.

Then again, her son Noah, is two.  His age and temperament, not to mention the social dynamics of his team, the demeanor of his coach, or the increasing competitiveness of youth sports in general, are just as likely to influence his behavior. But think of how much easier it would be, as a parent, as a teacher, even as a society, if we knew just a little bit more about ourselves. 

Lets face it, we need facts.  When Noah's mother contemplates her son's future, she's not just compiling data, she's constructing a story, a life plan.  She's projecting what he will become, how he will get there, and all that will follow.  In and of itself, this process is not unusual: children are forever fighting or embracing parents' expectations.  We tell ourselves it's a matter of potential, of self-actualization, of tradition.

But is the "be all you can be" mentality truly a product of human nature, or is it an artifact of a certain culture in a particular time and place?  In a sense, is there a larger story, a societal one, that we engage in by devising and implementing such genetic tests?  And if there is, do we construct that narrative, or is it given to us?

Remix This: Neverending Stories...

On the day of the
funeral, she sat beside
herself--and waited.

What you see above is the distillation of a short story that I wrote two years ago, entitled Tequila Mockingbird.  I was in a bit of a haiku phase at that point, and this particular one struck me, in full, while I was otherwise preoccupied with eating my lunch and reading the daily news.  The original version, was, if I recall, scribbled onto the margin of a page and then torn out and tucked into my wallet, where it lay, unbidden, for the remainder of the day.

Prior to the haiku, I had rewritten the story as a 10-page play called Leftovers, which opens with the main character, Dolores, bent over a broken plate full of turkey bits.  The play is entirely devoid of dogs, and in fact, conveys an entirely different interpretation of death from that of the haiku, despite deriving its origins from the same source material, an excerpt of which you'll find below:  

In the wake of death, every day is the same day.  I don't remember who said that, but we both know it to be true.  In the morning you always look through my belongings, and at night you stow them away--you don't want anyone else to know that you still think it's your fault.  But I know.  I see the way you spend your time, ruminating over your life, brooding.  The way you wash the dishes without thinking, dropping them on the floor.  Dammit girl, who the hell is going to pick up after you now?

Both the play and the haiku are, in a sense, remixes.  They are not merely permutations of a theme but evolutions in the story: they are distinct entities related to a single ancestor whose traits and qualities, while present, are not necessarily dominant.  Although all three works deal in death and coping, they are each unique in approach and perspective.

It's often said, only half-jokingly, that artists are always reworking the same themes.  In a way, that's true.  What we express signifies our voice as much or more than our tone or style.  The ingenuity comes in how we express those ideas.  Artists are always remixing, partly because what they feel about the themes that matter to them changes over time.  I've always had a contentious relationship with death, ever since my first godmother mysteriously disappeared, only to reemerge eight years later as a bygone victim of Lou Gherig's disease. 

Unsurprisingly, my view on death is an admixture of ardor and hatred that usually manifests itself in dark or sardonic humor. That so many of my characters meet unusual fates should be expected; what many find so surprising are the number of characters whose passing is...beatific.

Perhaps I am simply trying to give such individuals a death that was denied them, or their cognates, in life. 

Who knows?  in the next version, I may have them eaten by wolverines.

Building Character: Seeding the clouds...

Characters are essential to story.  Their desires are the driving impulse to the plot as well as the primary source of conflict.  Too often, though, characters remain just that: a technical construct, designed and implemented specifically to evoke certain reactions from the audience.  When we refer to an actor being "typecast," what we are actually bemoaning is the delimiting of a person to a set of constrained boundaries, i.e. characteristics. 

On one level, this is enjoyable.  Most folks I know relish seeing Christopher Walken in the "yet-another-creepy-guy" role.  But it can also become highly problematic, as Leonard Nimoy discovered when attending Trekker conventions (Trekkie, as my devoted friends have informed me, is considered derogatory). 

In the most extreme instances, personhood can be reduced to a singular idea.  These are almost invariably cliches, i.e. the jock. the nerd, the action hero, the heroine, the tech wiz, the minority muscle, the femme fatale, as is the common methodology for escaping them--the "with a twist" approach (although such permutations can be a bountiful source of amusement).

The fallacy, as it were, stems from a pernicious notion that characters emerge as a result of ideation, a process that tends to bog down in compound adjectives and intricate contrivances--e.g. the sexy Midwestern nymphomaniac botanist who a) invents sentient plants with a penchant for commitment, b) derives the ideal aphrodisiac from lichen, or c) fashions herself as a modern day Rappachini's Daugther and lures men to their death (it's not actually a multiple choice test, she can, in fact, do all three and be considered more "complex").

Yet such characters will never attain personhood.  At best, they will be entertaining, which, while noteworthy, is not of supremely lasting value.  The real characters, the ones we love and adore and remember as people, not only entertain us but remain with us for the rest of our lives.  I will never forget the day Irma Kalish told my screenwriting class about an encounter with an old school friend: 
The woman, who had undergone a terrible bout of breast cancer, said that she found the strength to go on by watching Edith undergo similar duress in the All in the Family episode entitled "Edith's Christmas Story." Irma, who wrote the episode, told us that it was one of the most rewarding moments in her life.

Although we, as storytellers, can never fully anticipate the impact of our works, we can prime them to have a profound effect on generation after generation.  To accomplish this, we much create characters that move beyond ideas and are instead, grounded in realities.  Such characters are people in their own right, with hopes and fears and beliefs.  We do not read or watch such individuals, we encounter them.

It is my hope that in future Building Character posts, you will encounter some of the people to whom I have given life.  In each subsequent entry, I will allow them to riff at leisure on whatever they feel is important.  By all means, please converse with them as you would any other fascinating and complicated person.  They are a quarrelsome bunch, I assure you, and will delight in your interest.

Collaborative Storytelling: Showing your roots (part II)...

In continuation from last week...

Don't get me wrong.  I don't wish to decry the joy of playing.  Like all aspects of creation, it serves a vital purpose.  Ask remixers why they pursue such an art (especially those who do so for free) and the inevitable answer will be, "because we love doing it."  Like a potter throwing clay on the wheel haphazardly, part of the joy is in seeing what can happen.  We derive pleasure from experimenting, from not knowing what will happen. But experiments, by their nature, can go horribly wrong.  This is why we also rely upon experience, and why, more often than not, we entrust particular tasks to individuals with relevant expertise.

In truth, both are essential to art: one provides the raw potential; the other suggests how to shape it.  To give primacy to one or the other is absurd.  Case in point: two weeks ago, I met with my thesis advisor to discuss the first fifty pages of my novel.  It was painful, as I knew it would be (some things can only be said face to face).  You see, I had experimented with the style of the prose and structure of the story and I knew that I had made mistakes.  Even with my limited experience in novel writing I could divine as much.  What I lacked, however, was the knowledge of what to do to fix my mistakes.  That, of course, is why one seeks out an experienced guide.

That’s why I find it fascinating to observe a community of remixers that possesses a judge’s panel.  I know what you're thinking: "It's just a hobby, how can you judge it?"  By taste?  By aesthetics? And you'd be right, it is difficult to imagine.  Despite this, OCRemix's seven year run and eleven collaborative albums stand as a testament to its success as a creative community; a success that is largely due to the dedication of its judges and the conviction of its artists.  In their own words,

"[t]his website is dedicated to arranging video game music.  Our mission is to prove that this music is not disposable or merely background, but is as intricate, innovative, and lasting as any other form." 

This is no passive relationship: it is intense, active, and even quarrelsome--as well it should be, for the remixer is no longer a consumer.  By participating in the remixing process the audience becomes a co-creator of a body of work that both pays homage to it origins and extends it far beyond them.  There is no doubt as to the quality of the music produced (arguably, much of it is better than the original source material).  If I were to undertake a film or equally substantial project I would not hesitate to consider including a high caliber OCremixer in the team for precisely the reasons mentioned above. In addition to that, the perspective such an art form requires, i.e. one of collegiality and playfulness, would benefit the creative process as a whole. 

Of course, for those who desire a less structured community, OCRemix's sister site, VGMix.com, is the perfect home.  Part workshop, part forum, VGMix is a veritable playground of ideas.  Originally more of a hosting and evaluative site, VGMix shifted toward its current state after a server meltdown.  Because of this, it is far more nebulous as a social entity, and as such, acts as more of a workshop than a studio.  Here, one can truly develop a sense for how a remix evolves from a mere concept into an actual work.  There are no set rules for declaring a work finished; however, fellow remixers are quick to chime in with praise, criticism, and advice.

The difference, then, between the remake and the remix, is that the former subjects an audience to a particular individual's interpretation (and in doing so, denies the audience the opportunity to meaningfully contribute to the story), while the latter necessitates a community whose experience guides the creator's experiment.  In short, the remake is the product of an individual while the remix is an artifact of a community.   

But what about the terrible remixes, you ask?  Will they be allowed to exist?  Yes (and why not, many remakes are awful, yet we still pay to see them).  In the end, quality alone doesn't matter.  What matters is that we take ownership of what is rightfully ours, the world of experience, and cease drifting through life as passive receptacles for other peoples’ ideas, thoughts, and beliefs (don't nod your head in agreement just yet, not unless you truly agree--I'll not be accused of making more zombies).

If you take nothing else away from this post, take this, I call it the build a better person game: first, dig through your magazines, your books, your photos; find as many pretty people as you can, and then cut them up (yes, you heard me, slash those ringlets and cupid bow smiles).  Not so pretty anymore, are they?  Now here's your chance to have some fun (if you aren't having fun already--I know I am).  Take all that fragmented beauty and make your own perfect person.  Better yet, makes lots of them.  Get your friends to do it, too.  Soon enough, you'll have a whole room full of perfect people, and chances are, some of them might even look just a bit like you (zounds, a twist!  Take that Shyamalan).

Remix away, people.  It's your life.

Peace,

-J

Collaborative Storytelling: Showing your roots...

In some ways, I will forever be a child.  Take my love of games, for example: board games, card games, computer games, video games, outdoor games, icebreaker games, word games--I am, to one degree or another, terribly addicted to all of them.  Note that I also include sports in this list as well, but only if I am actively participating in them (being a spectator bores the hell out of me). And why the love of games?  Simple.  Playing is essential to living. 

Naturally, storytelling--my most cherished activity (and habit, to some)--contains an element of play.  I'm thinking in particular of those stories told around campfires by people with s'more-sticky fingers and a bottle or two of social lubricant.  We all have our favorites, be they the Lady in White, The Ghost with the Bloody Hands, or the Creepy Killer Something or Other.  Whether such tales make us shiver or laugh is irrelevant; what's important is that they actively engage us on a psychological as well as physiological level.  It's not just the retelling that stimulates us but also the experience of encountering as tale as it's never been told before.

Such is the nature of the shaggy dog tale.  With each telling, as well as with each teller (and, by extent, each audience) certain elements, like setting or character or shades of humor and terror, are brought to light.  Hollywood knows this; indeed, the entire remake industry is predicated upon the assumption that people will always want to revisit certain stories.  All too often, though, this is a disastrous enterprise (albeit never financially, of course--DVD sales will recoup any loss there). 

So why is it that we, as a society, grant the ability to remake our culture's stories to such a small group of individuals?  As if it were a privilege or a right reserved solely for those who'd proven themselves worthy. Is it the appeal of expertise?  That mysterious aura that surrounds artists and permeates their every fiber?  Writers are prone to think (perhaps rightfully so) that we are better at telling tales than those (the vast unnamed majority, I suppose) who come to experience our creations.  How odd, then, that we should create something for an audience that cannot truly appreciate our genius (read: hubris).

They are our works, after all.  These stories on the page and on the screen.  Aren't they?  We are the ones who spent sleepless nights and sunless days working on them.  We are the ones who endured rejection time and again.  So why not be compensated for our diligence, our sacrifice?  But then, who is the story for?  Shall we writers, cloistered away in our little studios, sit in front of gleaming screens for days on end solely for the sake of self-gratification (why not, there's a whole industry based upon that as well).  Sometimes, it seems easier, that way. 

And then we realize that nobody's listening. 

It's an odd thing, that we should want to prevent you, the audience, from playing with our ideas.  Look, yes.  Listen, yes.  Watch and praise and sing our glory.  Oh yes!  (Make no mistake, creation is orgasm by proxy).  But do not, under any circumstances, alter our work, lest your varied and uncontrollable thoughts soil it irreparably. And oh, yes, give us money, too (contrary to popular belief, we do like to have food with our drink).

But what is lost in this transaction, in this deification of the artist-creator?  What leaves me feeling empty and bored when I listen to Tarantino and Rodriguez talk about Grindhouse (besides the nagging sensation that interviews with them are little more than forums for public masturbation)? 

I'll tell you what's lost: participation.  Looking upon their works, I realized I was a spectator, a voyeur into their private game.  Their play was not my play.  Indeed, their play was not anyone's play (other than their own), thus, there was no engagement.

And without engagement, can we even call it playing?

To be continued...

Personal Narrative: Origin Myths

Myths. Legends. Stories. Fables. Folklore. Alternate worlds, realities. To access these, we need only twenty-six letters. Twenty-six symbols capable of infinite combination, phonetics be damned. Toss in some commas, periods, quotation marks and whatnot. Stir vigorously, chew constantly, digest patiently. 

Describe your reading style in a word? I know mine: insatiable. What about your writing style?  I'd say, sensational, but that's just me. 

Of course, these are merely words; can they capture the entirety? The Zen Buddhist would shake his head and say “the finger is not the moon.” The semanticist would nod gravely in agreement and state “the map is not the territory.”

As for me, I think it’s like a Rorschach test, only, to figure out what the blot means, I ask, “should I look at the blot, or the empty space (negative space, my art teacher corrects)?”

The answer?  Both?  All?  None of the above?

What the hell, life is not a multiple choice test. You want answers; become a priest, a scientist. You ask questions; become a writer, and never stop asking.

What, you say, you can do both? Well, good for you, then do it, don’t say it (‘Show, don’t tell.’ Make it a Greek chorus in your head). 

Believe me, it will fit in with all the others.

Remember.  Listen to voices.  They might have something to say...