Understanding stories

When I went to college, I went hoping to be a novelist. I left hoping to find a job as a journalist. Somewhere in between I pursued creative writing academically, and managed to take a few superb classes all while taking other classes on literature.

I left with a solid education. I knew next to nothing about stories.

When I look back at the last time I actually did creative writing, I cringe at how awful my understanding of stories was. This past week, I've been skimming through some of the books I bought for creative writing classes. I'm amazed at how differently I read them now.

Then, it was practically a cargo cult mentality -- I nodded when writers wrote about stories being character driven. Then, I'd go try to mimic stories by creating allegorical symbols and the most transparent characters one can imagine.

I would create plots, sometimes elaborate ones, and fail to see that anything I wrote like that was either caricature or motionless prattle.

I was obsessed with prose. I conflated good writing with good prose, and had no idea what a writer actually does, and more importantly what a writer actually says.

Now, years later, I do have a much better understanding of what stories are, how they work, and how to create them. I learned it, oddly enough, in another obscure medium. I hope in ten years I'll look back on now in amazement how foolish I was writing this very entry.

The trouble now is that the more I learn, the less certain I am of my ability as a writer. It's the usual nonsense writers allow to trespass in their brains so they can prevent themselves from writing.

Drifting

Every day, I drive to work. My commute takes me by the airport on Fleur Drive. It's a pleasant enough routine. Usually, I'm in a trance listening to the radio or my music. When the weather's in between scorching and freezing, I keep the windows open enough to breathe.

Near the end of my commute is a city park. Trees tower overhead. They're filled with blackbirds in the fall. Swarms of the birds fly around like a blanket. And, right as I exit into downtown I can see the river. There's a kind of crude dam that tells me whether the river is up or down. After spring rains, the water drowns out the damn. I can't even tell where it is. But, when the river lowers, there it is, a line cutting across the water.

That same river flows downstream to the place where I used to catch fish with my grandpa and cousin. Grandpa Dick had land below Redrock, and we used to catch flathead and pike there. It's like a faraway fairy tale now.

I pass by that river every day. I take it for granted. Just like I take other things for granted -- like my writing. Life gets busy, I tell myself. Writing will come. It's as though I'm waiting for some driftwood to come along and do the work for me. Something that will whittle itself into the writing I pretend I can do.

That driftwood's never coming, is it? I think I'll stop waiting, and hang out here for a while.

Welcome to Riverwords. This is my writing journal. I'll share writing about my life, and I'll create some fiction. Heaven forbid the two ever get confused.

Coats

I brushed my wool coat against the security lock. It was an awkward daily routine, bending just slightly so the wallet tucked into my breast pocket could trigger the lock. I stepped inside the hallway, and tagged the up button. It lit up faintly red.

The elevator door opened up. There, three co-workers, all women, leaned against the walls, waiting for their floor. I stood between them all, staring at the numbers above the door in silence. The doors opened up.

"Excuse me." The blonde woman stepped off, lugging her bag behind.

The doors closed, and the elevator dinged another floor. I squeezed to the back, to lean against the wall myself. I think we all like to tell ourselves it's because we get off last. The truth is we're uncomfortable seeing the same strangers everyday, never saying a word. As I settled against the brushed steel wall, the women shifted away from me. It had entered their no wake zone.

The brunette broke the sullen silence that hung in the air like the morning's frost.

"How are you, Trish?" said the woman leaning against the back of the elevator. Her jewelry jangled, and her fringed coat caught my eye.

"I'm old." She sighed. Her face looked pained, and dark lipstick covered a tired scowl.

"I left my coat in the car. I hate coats," Trish said.

"I do too," said the fringed-coated woman frantically. Her jewelry jangled again, like a belly dancer's sash.

"It's part of the reason I hate winter," Trish said

She heaved herself off the elevator wall and onto the third floor. They exited together in their misery. Quietly, I watched the fringed coat, its tassles dancing to the jangling noise, disappear as the elevator doors closed.