I don’t think I’ve ever considered myself to be a
storyteller. Dad is pretty good at it,
and I have heard from many people that Papaw Bill was a master. I’m not good at it at all with most face to
face, in fact I feel pretty awkward- I’m always remembering the advice given to
me by Harry Schneeman: “Son, nobody gives a shit about what you have to
say. They only want to you to hear what
they have to say.” Such sage wisdom,
given to me at 18 years old- he said that because he probably knew I needed to
hear it. Since then I measured my words,
and that’s helped me a lot in my life, but I think Harry killed storytelling
for me. He did me a favor. Mainly because I didn’t understand what
people wanted to hear- at the time, nor was my teenage mind grizzled enough for
emotional intelligence, perception, or more plainly I wasn’t capable of knowing
when people would wish I’d shut the hell up.
I learned a lot more from Harry, like how to paint a house properly and so
forth. Practical things, practical
logic…. Look in a man’s eye and get shit done things. I can’t help but think that storytelling is
frivolous now- thanks Harry.
So what has happened to me as I’ve grown older…? I’ve realized that there’s something that
people ARE interested in, and that’s connecting, relating, reliving, self
expression, beauty, and wonder- not necessarily just a story. It’s what I’m interested in, more plainly-
and done in many different forms in today’s multitude of media. My time, like Harry’s, is opportunity for me-
what’s the best thing to do with the next hour…type of thinking. I know some people who may like to
compulsively read books just to get lost in a good story and they tear through
paperbacks, or whatever as if it’s so easy to do. They seem to be just reading stories and
wasting time. Me, I have a hard time
completing a book-particularly fiction.
This is simply because I’m literally envisioning every damn detail in
the paragraph and comprehending the meaning of each turn in dialogue….tedious. I simply can’t read a book- fiction, like
it’s a story. I have to invest in it and I’m going to take a bite from each
page, chew slowly, and swirl it around in my mouth a couple of times. I can’t help it. I AM the knight on the horse. I AM the scared
kid. I AM the monster with a good
conscience. If a good writer has to be a
fast reader then I’m screwed. I want to
live the story, not just read through it.
So where would I belong in the overall worldly status of
writers? Well, most people, I have
learned, have compulsions. In fact, I’d
argue we all have compulsions of some sort.
Those things, ticks, which we have or do which are ingrained
somehow. I have, somehow, figured out
that I’m compulsively inclined to write down things- in some sort of stream of
consciousness that I don’t fully understand but I know exists. It began with poems in high school, when I
had to write a few poems in 11th grade in English class. I started out impatient with the whole
exercise (as is usual in having to get through high school) so I plagiarized
some song lyrics from one of my metal band cassette tape sleeves- assuming that
since the lines rhymed that it was close to poetry and that’s where I
began. Then compulsion took over and as
I wrote down the song lyrics by hand (the song was called “Dirty Weapons”) I
could not help but rewrite the lines with different verbs, adjectives here and
there to mean something totally different.
What started with words from a cheap metal band song riff turned into a
powerful summary of divorce and children and a catharsis for the pain in my
life at the time. The poem got the
highest grade in the class and my teacher raved. She connected- it was real, not a story but
something else. What happened in the
whole exercise was a learning experience for me. I haven’t really forgotten that experience-
and I didn’t start out with a plan for such success- as could probably be
figured out, I didn’t really know what I was doing. It just happened, and compulsively.
I still have that compulsion today. It simmers quietly underneath my thoughts as
I go through each day at work. I have a
constant, quiet need to express myself- and experience the joy of the work of
expression- a release of sorts. Through
writing I have done this best, often revealing things as I crash through that
surprise even me. It has become a
calling or yearning of sorts. I need to
do it. It’s been a privilege to have the
people in my life who’ve shaped my thinking, like Harry, like Dad, like others
too. I’ve been taught that people want
to hear what you have to say when they gain from it- thank you Harry. Life is an exercise of give and take. I like to write because I think my
expressions written out help people in some form or another, and for free they
can take what they want. It’s compulsive for me to do it anyway (I’m gonna do
it anyway). But, if no one finds joy in
it other than me, then I can hear Harry talking at me and telling me to fix
that shit.
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