For reasons that remain a mystery to me but which I sort of expect may reveal themselves in time, we hear a lot about story and storytelling these days. It's not uncommon to hear writers of all forms talk about the fundamental human hunger for good storytelling. And thanks in large part to the efforts of The Moth and others like it, storytelling, as an art form is enjoying a renaissance.
Don't get me wrong. I love a good storytelling. And I love the Moth, whose Artistic Director Catherine Burns, is an old pal of mine. But as much as I may love good story, I love great writing more. And that's what I fear gets too little attention in a world where "content is king."
I was recently reminded of a wise warning offered by memoirist and writing teacher Amy Friedman. A couple years ago, I had the pleasure of participaing in one of her writing workshops during which she urged us not to tell the stories we are about to write because by doing so, we risk performing them into a box.
The other night, I was telling a really great anecdote to my boyfriend when he suggested I write it down. I was immediately sorry to have expended some of the energy of it in its telling. Because each time we tell a story, we perform it. And in the performance of it, we codify certain details and even may unconsciously shape it according to the shifts in reaction we sense from our audience as we weave our way from beginning through middle to end.
When we write alone in our silence, nobody but our own inner compass guides us in our telling. And at least in my own work, I'm sure it's always stronger when born of the quiet solitude of the writer's chair.
My wish for the near future is for audiences to develop a deeper appreciation for the nuances of great writing... so that they might crave that which only the craftsperson with the pen can create.
But how on Earth might this come to pass? The only way I'm aware of is through voracious reading. What are the odds that that's going to enjoy its own renaissance?
Your guess is as good as mine.
