FROM ANECDOTE to STORY

A few years ago, my then agent sent to all his writers a short list of what an editor he knew was looking for. One item on the editor’s wish list sparked my writing gears.

It was “A story unbelievable but true.” Documenting the factual in the story should come in an Author Note, it said.

 

I have a few such anecdotes from my own life, the sort that, when I shared them with friends, not all of them believed me. But I knew they were true because they happened to me, for real.

 

I immediately wrote about one of these and, as soon as I finished, I also knew it was not for publication because it wasn’t the sort of “True but Unbelievable” anecdote the editor was looking for. That story wound up on my website, where it appropriately seemed to settle.

 

You can read it here: https://mirkabreen.com/my-blog/f/before-you-check-my-real-bloga-little-story

 

The thing about anecdotes is that they are already stories. How to turn them into the sort a publisher would consider is elaborated on in this link: https://janefriedman.com/how-to-turn-an-anecdote-into-a-story/

 

Whether for publication and of wider interest or not, all interesting anecdotes are worth telling. If no one believes you, you know what you know and others were nonetheless hopefully entertained. 

WHERE IS YOUR REAL LIFE?

 Just as I was about to scream at the maddening younger folks who seem to live in their phones that “LIFE IS NOT INSIDE YOUR PHONES, people!” I had a vision of my (much) younger self.

 

In it, I was curled up with a book, more books resting on the floor to be read later, oblivious to the sounds and scents wafting through the window. ’Twas my mother who burst through my bedroom door and yelled to “GET UP AND DO SOMETHING USEFUL.”

I’m not inventing this scene. It is an actual memory, or memories (plural) of just such at our home from long ago.

 

My mother told me she was admonished to “GET YOUR EAR AWAY FROM THE RADIO, YOUNG LADY.”

 

So, kids are living inside their phones, and I lived inside books and their fictional stories. Far back in cavemen days, listening to stories by the fire was a real thing, also. Humans always seem to reside in some form of retreat. At least, as much as the demands of earning a livelihood would allow.

 

TikTok shorts are not novels, but they are stories in their summary way. What all the above testifies to is the human addictive need for stories.

 

Which, as a storyteller, makes me happy. I don’t feel like yelling anymore.

 

At least, not until the next time I’m on a train or in a waiting room full of people and every one of them is staring at the little rectangular device in their hand.

SYMBOLS and SIGNS

 

We grasp reality through stories. But before we have sentences that make paragraphs, we have symbols.

 

I quote the first part of my favorite sentence from another writer’s post, “Life speaks to us through symbols….” Lisa Tener’s whole post is worth reading.

 

Unlike the notion that using symbols makes a story literary, I contend it makes any story better. It makes a story good.

 

Think of weaving consistent symbols into your storytelling. Now make their appearance organic, and you have better stories.

 

Thoughts as I finished draft number two of my current WIP. 😔

 

Can you guess what my current woven symbol is? Don't try too hard. My Beta readers are yet to comment on it. My hope is that it's seamless, and they so won't.

DO YOU FEEL LUCKY?

 

It’s a tough question.

 

As a feeling, it forms our orientation every day. One day this way, and the next, that-a-way.

 

But the role of pure luck in life and history is a persnickety matter. Storytellers avoid it, because one can not make sense of lucky coincidences.

 

Historians, who are also storytellers when it comes right down to it, also avoid it for the most part. Their jobs and whole professional discipline would evaporate if luck is deemed central to events.

 

Philosophers and theologians have argued about the place of coincidence. The understanding of creation hinges on the notion that a thinker/great designer is behind it, or a chain of gazillion coincidences just had a lucky streak.

 

Some, like me, have come to understand that coincidences are few, but they do exist and do play a part in all journeys.  But how to tell this in stories, and in what proportion to place luck in a story?

 

Now, that is the question.

If You Think It— It Be REAL

 

Up until the age of seven or eight, I believed that if I thought something up in my imagination, it became real.

 

A fine example was The Mickey Mouse Affair. I was five years old when I told my best friend that I had a “real Mickey, round black ears and all.”

“Where?” she asked.

“He’s under my bed and only comes out at night after everyone goes to sleep.” I said.

My friend wanted one also. She told her parents, who then summoned me so I can admit I made it up. I insisted my Mickey was real.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know I had thought this up, or that I was embarrassed about fibbing and didn’t want to admit it. I knew I thought him, and also was convinced that now he was real.

 

Kids. This is part of the magical age.

 

Most people outgrow this, or channel it only into the creative arts. A sad and bad scenario for those who don’t grow up is when they apply this to politics.

 

Today, I use my imagination to write fiction, which, as far as I’m concerned, becomes real in its way.

©Carina Povarchik

The LONE PERSON THEORY of HISTORY

 

We grasp the past in stories. We frame our understanding of history in the stories historians tell.

 

There’s a school of thought that human history is largely shaped by single individuals. Thus, some speak not of the perennial evil current that is antisemitism, or of the German people in the middle of the twentieth century, but of “Hitler.” Hitler did this, and Hitler did that, and it’s all because of Hitler.

 

I remember reading a book (wish I could remember the title) where someone was bent on inventing time travel so he could go back in time and kill baby Hitler in his crib, before this baby would grow up and wreak havoc. I can’t remember if in the story the protagonist succeeds (=alternative history) but another baby grows up to stand in Adolph Hitler’s stead, or if the attempt fails. It was one or the other, because we know what did in fact happen.

 

A similar theme is in a graphic novel, Bodies, by Si Spencer, now made into an eight-part filmed series.  It was interesting to watch, and as wrongheaded as can be.

The lone savior/lone villain who can either save the world or destroy it is the basis not only of every superhero comic, but of all stories going back to the Bible and before.

 

For this reason, the multitude accept politicians who state a variation of “I alone can fix it.” It sounds preposterous to most thinking people, but we have been conditioned to frame our understanding of reality in this way.

 

All this is a reminder to storytellers. Storytellers have a responsibility for the ages. Our protagonists struggle to overcome and do right. But as they do, is humanity saved?

 

Even in kidlit, there is a stream of “kid saves the world.” (Think Harry Potter)

Blimey if I never write such stories, despite publishing professionals constant urging to “up the stakes.” I’m a big proponent of stories where an individual changes their own perspective or helps a person near them.

A Messiah is one because their teaching lights a way of being to individuals.

 

Save me from the save-the-world ones. We keep telling their stories, and the world is clearly not saved.

The THEME

 

I know I’ve posted on this before, though it’s been a while.

Good stories have an underlying theme, or themes.

We know the how-to advice, that strong stories are better born of strong characters, and the more generic/commercial stories are born of a plot arc.

 

For me, almost all stories are incepted from themes, and as I draft, I keep the theme front of mind.

 

Pivotal themes in picture books are family, the nature of nature and other man-made creations, feelings such as sadness or joy, and concepts such as numbers/colors/letters.

For middle grade readers (ages 8-12) central themes are friendship, family, school struggles and, as the perennial for all ages, the nature of our world, i.e., reality and our place in it.

 

I got to thinking about it again as I read this post here.

 

I know what themes I want to explore. Then, I choose the persons who would go on this exploration (protagonist and antagonist) and their side characters usually emerge as the plot unfolds. Mechanics of plot are so well researched in how-to books that this is the smaller, less demanding part of drafting.

 

Most storytellers don’t follow this order of construction, but I offer it as yet another way.

WHERE’S YOUR BAOBAB?

 

Many (many!) years ago, in a land far away, I discovered The Little Prince.

 

He was a curious creature, born of fantasy. His journey was metaphorical. Even then, I knew his various stops on many small planets with their curious inhabitants were not to be taken as realistic.

 

On his own planet, the Little Prince spoke of Baobab trees. The sound of that, BA-OH-BAB, made them creatures of fancy, not real things to be found in our world.

Turned out I was wrong. Baobabs are real. They grow in Madagascar, where my son served in the United States Peace Corps until a short time ago. I told him I would value a photo of him near one of these.

 

Before leaving Madagascar, right after his close of service, my son made a point to travel to where the oldest Baobab in all of Madagascar stands proud. The locals claim it’s a thousand years old, while arborists say it’s likely seven to eight hundred. Old enough, either way.

My son bequeathed his smart phone to a local individual, because he knew it would be useful to his Malagasy friend. What my son took with him on the pilgrimage to the old Baobab was a not-very-smart borrowed phone that could only manage poor photos. But you can imagine that, regardless of quality, the photo is one I value. It holds a special meaning, joining one of the circles of my life.

 

My little Prince communed with a Baobab.

 

Here he is with the Old Tree of Mahajanga~

Life continues to be magical even as it is ever real. Maybe especially then.

THE TAIL/TALE OF TWO CATS

 

Many years ago, in a land far away, I had two cats who grew up as brothers.

 

One, named Kitten, was no kitten but a hefty oversized gray tiger cat. The other, named Blue Boy, had a more apt name because he was a Blue-point Siamese with the bluest eyes.

 

Here they are in an old photograph—

These brothers, no genetic connection, got along well. They even devised plots together to fool their parent, which was yours truly.

 

You see, they were put on special diets because of health (Blue Boy) and heft (Kitten) issues. They were not supposed to have the same food. They agreed on this point, but not on which food was for each. No matter how carefully and cheerfully offered, the moment I turned my back I’d sense them sleekly sneaking their way, each to the other’s food bowl.

 

My stern look and vocal admonition would quickly make them reverse course back to their assigned places. But then, if I looked away again, there they went doing their switcheroo.

 

This got me thinking about the human aspect of coveting what others have. In some instinctive way we share this with animals.

 

There’s a reason it’s one of the Ten Commandments. (Number ten, to be exact: “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbor’s.”)

 

My cats told me it is basic, instinctive, and not rational in the least. 

A reminder when bringing fictional characters to life that reason does not rule them.

COINCIDENCE?

 

Or, put another way—

DO YOU BELIEVE THE ARE NO COINCIDENCES?

 

There are those who think everything that happens (i.e. the plots of our lives) are tied together in (or by) a mysterious force operating beyond what we can see. They find proof of this everywhere.

That’s the school of No Coincidences.

 

Then, others believe everything is coincidental, and marvel at what would have been had they made the slightest different choice at any junction.

That’s the school of charting on tabula rasa with meaning coming out of choices combined with blind luck.

 

When we plot and tell stories, invariably our philosophical bias on this matter comes through.

It was beautifully explored in the movie Sliding Doors. The film alternates between two storylines, showing two paths the central character's life could take depending on whether she catches a train.

*Spoiler alert!—  In that story, the surprise ending shows that ultimately things turn out the same, though the road to that ending is different.

 

This is my personal bias as well. The grand scheme is not coincidental; the mini-turns along the way hold many different possibilities.

 

Writers are often reminded to tie the plot in a meaningful way and never allow it to be a list of unconnected actions. This makes the bias of a storyteller strongly leaning to the No Coincidences school.

Thus, writers tend to be the self-selected believers in ultimate destiny.

Suits me.

SEASONS and SEASONINGS

 

Where I live, in California’s bay area, there is basically only one season.

Lucky us, the season is SPRING.

It goes something like this:

Bay area summer = Spring with morning fog

Bay area fall = Spring without the morning fog

Bay area winter = Spring with some rain

Bay area spring = well, just spring

I have dealt with this boring blessing by creating seasonality in artificial ways.

Example—

I change the bed’s quilt, and thus my bed reflects seasonality.

SUMMER^

FALL^

WINTER^

SPRING^

The cats are perennial.

 

It occurred to me that the stories I write are similar. My life is a steady road with mini-bumps for variety. The stories are life accentuated, outlined, marked with eye-popping swatches of drama.

The bed frame is akin to the daily discipline of writing, and the cats (i.e., the stand-ins for the narrator who is me) are the constant sentient beings. The quilts serve to delineate the titles from each other. 

Thus, stories are life with spicy seasoning.

🌻Happy Spring🌻

NEVER RUN OUT OF STORIES

 

Our lives are filled with possibilities that haven’t materialized. Stories are conjured of things that do.

 

      When the story-well feels empty, I think of it this way:

1.      Here are the blessings I have. (I count them). Blessings do not make for story-hooks, but I need to do this in order to take the next step.

2.      Here are the frustrations and lackings I experience. (I list them)

      Every one of the items on the lacking list begs for a “what if...”

{As in what if instead of having an editor pass on my manuscript, it got multiple offers. Or what if instead of having my old clunker of a car stolen, I won a brand new one in a raffle and got to donate the old one to someone who needed it.}

 

Most of the what-ifs are stories. My mind lets the possibilities in. Starting from the point of lack, and moving through challenges, to a point of either triumph or acceptance of the lack, which is an inner triumph.

 

I didn’t develop this exercise in order to think up story ideas; it’s something I always did naturally. But it also assures I will never run out of ideas.

Unless, of course, I find myself counting my blessings and having not a single lack.

Well, that’s not going to happen. Nevermore.

Character and Theme

Most good stories are memorable because of their characters.

Most writerly how-to advice says to start with character.

I always had the themes first. What is this about? Only then the “who is this about” seeped in.

Developing the characters took care and deliberateness. The theme came naturally, the characters less so.

A few months ago, an unusual character popped in, and I followed this character to the end of the story.

One member of my critique group said, “Cute character, but you need to develop the theme.”

Blasted bubblegum! My way of writing had changed.

Of course, it isn’t either or. There’s more than one way. But for the first time I realize that no matter how old I am or how long I’ve been at it, I, too, am a writerly work-in-progress.

So the theme of this post is change is eternal 😉

Storytelling is for Always

When I was one year old, my mother and I flew from Israel to the United States because her father, my grandfather whom I never met, had just died. My father stayed behind, and our stay in Florida, which was supposed to be short, lasted nine months.

It would be a foreshadowing of my parents eventual divorce, when I was seven. But for a time, it was an extended separation.

When we left, I spoke in two-word sentences in Hebrew. When we returned, I spoke fluently, and in English, a language my father barely knew. But my father understood the very first thing I said to him when he greeted us at the port of Haifa, where our ship had docked. He told me about this meeting many times. He said I looked at him, took his hand and said, “Daddy, tell me a story.”

I forgot whatever English I knew not long after. I would learn it (or re-learn) some years later in school, as a second language. But I knew this sentence because in re-telling my father always said it in English.

Tell me a story. No matter what or where, no matter how or whom. There are always the stories and the storytellers who tell them.

📚~Keep telling stories~📚

More CAT Tales

Allow me to indulge is some wee cat tales, and also tails. This links to writing in a roundabout way, I promise.

All three of our cats are, well, cats. This they have in common. They have whiskers and pointy ears and fur and, yes, tails. But here is where they differ.

^Clara, the oldest, has never done a bad thing in her life. She never sharpens her claws on anything but the cardboard we provide for such purpose; never nudges anyone off their food bowl; never attacks the others, and has never met a person she doesn’t like. She does not assume you want her on your lap, so she looks to your invitation and will leave with the slightest sign you’ve had enough. She’s the best (and only, actually) real mouser, and has kept us rodent-free as fee for her care.

She is the cat you want if you need one working feline.

^Sokolov, our only male, was of feral stock. To this day, he only accepts five humans, us plus a friend. When I say, “accepts,” I mean he runs to greet us at the sound of our footsteps, the way a loving dog would. No other human will ever see him, as he zooms to hide long before they are at the door. Visitors have to believe me Sokolov exists, because no one gets as much as a glimpse of his black furry tail. He constantly challenges the others (and us) for our food, and proceeds to leave vomited hairballs everywhere. You’ll have to take my word that he’s more than worth all that trouble. Sokolov is the most intelligent and, at least towards us, the most affectionate.

^Our youngest, Nougat, is a senseless goof. She gets herself into spaces she can’t get out of, considers everything a batting toy, and talks all the time. She can hold a continuous conversation for half an hour, as long as you keep responding. Her sentences are as varied as they are entertaining. She prefers your company and play to a tasty morsel every time. Folks who think cats are just food motivated, haven’t met Nougat. “Food? What food? Play with me, I tell you. Meow-meow, I’m talking to you!”

This brings me to writing. Yes, they’re all cats, of the Felis Catus species. But they are individuals. A good reminder not to have generic characters when telling a story. 

WRITE What You Love to READ

Steven Spielberg said he makes the movies he’d like to see. It’s that simple.

So it is for me. I write the stories I’d like to read. Good thing, because read them I will, over and over, before I move on to writing the next story I’d like to read.

This is my answer to the question of why I write for kids, why I write what I write, and why I write, period. I like to read. That is the why and the what.

There are writers who wouldn’t write commercial books if asked, because they don’t read them. Others wouldn’t write literary fiction because-- ditto. If you love reading who-done-its, Science Fiction, or romance, you could try writing one. Writing is a thorough engagement, and such is rewarding in a deep way when it’s what you like.

All the rest are the dues we pay for this privileged existence.

©Ofra Amit (from A Velocity of Being)

The Heroism of Getting Along

Okay, I’ll put it right here. My heroes are the get-along people.

Outside of literary fiction, you won’t find them much in stories. But in real life, they are the ones who don’t scream and shout, (these days mostly online) or “unfriend” or cut off family as they imagine this is what taking a stand sounds like.

To me, such a stand, while some find it glamorous and most think heroic, often amounts to spite and vilification. A rather lazy thing.

Real heroes don’t forget that people are complex. They love real diversity, as in folks who don’t think or act as they do. They love them because variety is what the creator intended.
{And as an aside, maybe especially those who don't think there is a creator might admit they'd be bored stiff without the magnificent assortment that is our species.}

Real heroes don’t dream of kudos from the tribe. They’re okay with not having a tribe.

We’re about to re-enter that fractious zone called national elections, and what incivility we’ve fostered is about to get wilder. I hope I can remind myself of the above, and try to be that kind of hero.

But I may have to take some breaks from the online world. I won’t leave it; that’s not heroic IMO. Just take breaks now and then to remember my values so I can recharge and come back to living with, and listening to, differences.

I re-quote my grandma’s Yiddish saying: If everyone pulled in the same direction, the world would tip over.

She was not the most tolerant person. But she did leave me this gem. Just sayin’.

Don’t Let Reality Get in the Way

“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”

–Zen in the Art of Writing

©Ray Bradbury

Why do I love this line so much? Because it keeps my reality right smack in front of me, lest I forget.

This pretty much encapsulates the writing life, the artistic life, the gardening life and really— life. Period.  

Like all Zen sayings, if you explain or elaborate much, you invade and destroy the ephemeral space they inhabit. I’ve already written posts about life as story and how we organize our understanding as stories. 


I’ll leave it, then, before I get high-falutin’ again.

Does It Take a Village?

Some months ago, a neighbor posted on the neighborhood board (called NextDoor) that a mother deer had two fawns in her back yard. But only a few days later, the mother and one of the fawns disappeared, likely moved themselves to a more discreet grazing area.

The thing was, they left one fawn behind. Despite not approaching it and waiting for the mother to return for it, the newborn fawn was still there and still alone.

The neighbors mobilized with advice. Call animal control. Don’t call animal control. Call a vet. Follow what the vet says. Get bottles and formula and feed it. Don’t feed it. Do. Don’t. Do.

The neighbor began feeding the fawn. The fawn seemed to gain strength. The neighbor posted pictures. Who doesn’t melt at the sight of Bambi? Turned out Bambi was a she, and we collectively named her Bambina. We looked for daily updates and photos, and cheered for every new morning light that showed Bambina was still there. Donations of blankets and formula and money poured, but mostly it was a steady stream of advice that flowed and made us a village.

And then she began to fail. She was clearly sick. More advice, prayers and tears.

Then one day, Bambina passed away to the great grazing field in the sky, and a whole neighborhood cried.

Only weeks ago, this happened again. Only this was an abandoned newborn feral kitten. This time, it was a he, and the rescuer named him Alfie. Many adoption offers and donations later, and the rescuer has made Alfie, now an energetic love-bug of a cat, part of her household.

There’s a saying that it takes a village to raise a child. These real neighborhood stories made me think of how these children made us a village, but it took one compassionate neighbor to do the work.

Stories and Real Life

A writer friend lamented that she gets feedback from readers who complain that her stories are open ended. “Isn’t that what real life is?” she said.

Yes, sort of, maybe. But there are real differences between real life stories and stories about life, real or otherwise.

Stories have a beginning and an end. As we live, we experience many beginnings but few solid resolutions.

Stories may have an unreliable narrator. Think of the Books Shutter Island and Gone, Girl, (both made into good movies) or in kidlit— When You Reach Me. In real life we are all somewhat unreliable narrators, only we rarely get to figure this out like omniscient readers do.

Stories make sense. If they don’t, they fail. In real life, we leave that overall sense to the originator of all things. Hard as some try, making sense of everything all the time makes Johnny or Sally insufferable.

In stories, every detail must count. In real life, while the details that turn out to count are more memorable, they are also few.

We need stories to make sense and give meaning to experiences. This is why stories are organizers of experience.

Okay, back to organizing.