Note: This was stylistically inspired by the book "Notes from the Tilt-A-Whirl" by N.D. Wilson (which everyone should go out and read and then watch the DVD)
I have a fascination with stories. I like anecdotes, and I like epic sagas. I'm interested in happy stories, sad stories, scary stories, stories with meaning, and most of all stories that can play out on a little film reel in my head.
Sometimes as I drive, or sit in the food court at the mall, or fly above the earth at 38000 feet across a country of millions, I try to imagine stories occurring around me. When a frowning middle-aged man with a gut walks past, is he just a man in mid-life crisis? An angry boyfriend of an unhappy woman? Perhaps he's a man with a troubled teenage daughter who he loves, but who has made some bad decisions. Perhaps he's normally a cheerful, witty man, but today he spilled his coffee on his shirt or stubbed his toe. Maybe the series of events that led up to his coffee spill were the sort that will read well in a book he writes, or lift spirits at his next party. Maybe there was a near-death experience, or a life saved (his or that of a child- this story could be inspiring or involve frivolous lawsuits).
I doubt I'd do well to ask him the story now. His disposition promises more rain than sunshine, his words more likely to be foul than fair. But I still wonder.
My grandfather cut off his finger (at least) three times during his decades as a carpenter/woodworking genius. I think it was the same finger. Guys find this sort of thing amusing, ironic. I once had my thumb shut in a sliding minivan door for a good minute before the door was unlocked and my purplish thumb released. Now it's a war story to compete with others among a group of friends who have suffered broken limbs, dangerous allergies, concussions, and any number of other painful events in their past. We laugh, we wince, we try to paint greater tales with each passing minute. This scar came from an unfortunate tumble down the stairs. That bruise came from fighting off a pack of lions.
Enter a comedy on the food court stage - young suburban kids bedecked in gear that is supposed to represent the poor and underprivileged.
What are their stories?
Are they fools acting tough and distant from the world, looking to score drugs or pick up women? Are these dissonant notes in the middle of a symphony? Ink spatters on a Davinci masterpiece?
Are they young men carrying a fashionable image (one sort of fashion anyway) that they like, but whose cultural associations they do not identify with? Are they just trying to fit in? Perhaps they listen to 50 Cent and Eminem in the car with their friends, but turn on the classical music when no one's around, and dream of performing solos of Bach and Handel's great choral works.
One guy has his pants hanging low. I think I know his story. I sneer at the fiction I've just written. It is a story unfit for the pages being written all around him. It belongs in the "pop" section at best, or perhaps it ought not to have been published at all. Will these pages do anything but steal ink from the rest of us?
Maybe he helped lift groceries into the car for an elderly lady and his well-worn belt snapped from the effort.
What is your story? What stories play into your life? What was your worst injury, your funniest joke, your first kiss, taste of candy, or ride at the amusement park?
What is the story you tell with your walk, with your emotions, with your expressions, with your actions? Does it fit with the first draft you composed this morning? Are you producing and directing a box office hit, an artistic masterpiece, or will this one go straight to DVD? What will the critics say? What will the Critic say?
My stories are all bestsellers you know. They're all 100% original. They're very dramatic, very artistic. My tragedies call forth rivers of tears, my dramas gain sympathy and understanding, and my comedies produce the best laughs.
That is, if anyone actually took the time to read them.
I frown as I walk through the mall. I'm remembering a mistake I made last week at work. Before I know it the audience knows me as an angry character. No doubt I'd be the guy picking the fight, the example made by the hero.
Who made the casting decisions? I was supposed to play the conflicted hero with a complex past. My performance is nuanced. Everyone will love me as soon as I reach Starbucks.
The world has 7 billion novels, each of them with somewhere between one and a million chapters. Do you like reading? I'm usually more of a picture book guy, but I'm getting a lot more interested in words.
Who is the person next to you in the elevator? Why is she wearing mismatched socks? Who's helping take care of her baby now that her husband died serving in the military?
Who are you?
Tell me a story.
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