Storytellersunplugged

Where Words Meet

Mysterious Butterflies

By

Richard Steinberg

“The human mind is not capable of grasping the universe. We are like a child entering a huge library . . . The child knows that someone must have written all those books. It does not know who or how,” Albert Einstein

Among the vast dark matter plains of space, galaxies are constantly in motion; often coming into contact with each other. Millions of stars and planets (perhaps more) are constantly sliding effortlessly and harmlessly past each other. Each getting a close up look at the other without being essentially changed by the experience. But occasionally a rogue galaxy will not go softly into that good night of the Universe.

Such is the case of Galaxy ESO 510-G13.

Recently – in cosmic time – 510-G13 slammed into another galaxy, and rather than passing harmlessly by, it destroyed much of what was in the second galaxy; swallowing what was left and sweeping it up on its never ending journey across the heavens. The light/energy generated by this cataclysm was so bright it’s likely it was seen in the furthest corners of the universe.

Forget the intricacies of physics and quantum/celestial mechanics for a moment and just picture the remarkable magic unleashed over the app. three million years it took for 510-G13 to remake that other galaxy into a part of itself before blissfully moving on. And within that stunning mixture of blue stars, purple nebulas, and stunning new star-births lies my fondest, most intimate aspiration.

I want to be 510-G13.

I want my words to soar gracefully out into the universe, impacting anything with a brain they might encounter. I want them to hit with such closeted force that they destroy preconceptions, obliterate ill-conceived judgments, and reduce to ash hatreds and misconceptions based on ignorance. And then, rather than leaving wreckage behind, I want them to remake the destroyed (and therefore malleable) mentalities into something better, something more beautiful, something filled with purples and greens and newly formed stars of passionate perspectives.

Picture the child Einstein mentions in the open of this piece. For the first time, standing in the doorway of a great library like that in Alexandria, in Paris, in New York; the child looks at the walls of books not knowing where they came from or how they came to be or who wrote them or why they were written. The youngster takes a step forward, and then another. Walks close enough to smell the bindings, reaches out to barely touch the spine of the closest book; hesitates, then opens it and . . . SLAM!!!! The child is changed, perhaps only a little bit, forever.

Chalk another one up for the followers of 510-G13.

But my problem is this: I don’t write for children. Most of my fellow contributors at Storytellers don’t write for children. Most of you, gentle readers, don’t aspire to write for children. And when grown-up (physically at least) people are your target audience, it becomes incredibly hard to live up to my favorite galaxy’s example: to penetrate through a lifetime’s experiences and cultured beliefs; to obliterated wrong-headedness, to remake a fully developed soul.

But we have to try.

This is the end of my first year with Storytellers Unplugged, my 18^th column/essay or story to appear on this site. I’ve discussed technique, theory, theme, and a few things that don’t begin with “T”. I’ve tried to take my monthly opportunity to speak to other writers and convince them to become heartists. I’ve attempted to get through to basic truths, to share common dreads, to express as eloquently as I can what I believe is a writer, is good writing, what goes in the mystical stew, what temperature to cook it at; what garnish to serve it with to create something worthy of being called: writing rather than creative typing.

But I wonder sometimes – as the majority of our readers never leave a comment – if anything I write is connecting on a galactic rewrite level. Not to remake you into my image – that bare possibility sickens me – but rather into a galaxy of your own; dancing gracefully through celestial fields of possibilities. Seeking out weaker galaxies in need of help or guidance. Remaking them into something more beautiful or uglier . . . but something new and capable of continuing the gavotte on their own.

“Although written many years ago, Lady Chatterley’s Lover has just been reissued by the Grove Press, and this pictorial account of the day-to-day life of an English gamekeeper is full of considerable interest to outdoor minded readers, as it contains many passages on pheasant-raising, the apprehending of poachers, ways to control vermin, and other chores and duties of the professional gamekeeper. Unfortunately, one is obliged to wade through many pages of extraneous material in order to discover and savour those sidelights on the management of a midland shooting estate, and in this reviewer’s opinion the book cannot take the place of J. R. Miller’s Practical Gamekeeping,” Ed Zern, Field and Stream, November 1959

Clean miss. Galaxy D.H. Lawrence had no effect at all on Mr. Zern. He came, he read, he yawned.

But then there’s A Catcher In The Rye; a book that the FBI tell us was either owned or had been repeatedly read by 83 out of 100 serial killers they’d interviewed. Guess Galaxy J.D. Salinger managed to impact right-on with that.

So, how do we pull it off? What is it we must do as writers to connect so completely with our readers that our words might (and we never ask for more than “might”) destroy and remake, smother and kindle all at once? How do we make sure we’re not misunderstood in our efforts to release grace?

As I said, this is my 18^th column for Storytellers. I’ve written 19 novels, two short story collections, been a New York Times and international best seller; am published in 19 languages in 32 countries, and occasionally write features on boxing for the Japanese. I’ve been paid for my writing for eleven years now, can be found in most libraries, and my work is being turned into films and TV shows.

But I still don’t have a clue. Not even when it comes to my own books, essays, or stories. I can recognize it when I see it, though.

If you want to be worthy of being called a child of 510-G13, you will put truth in your writing. Not necessarily arbitrary truth, and often not even your own truth, but real truth based on your characters’ realities and your story’s requirements. You will season these truths with believability. Even in the wildest fantasies (that succeed) you are drawn into a believable world where everything makes sense within the reality of that world. And you’ll top it off with just a little passion. The smallest part of the mix, but possibly the most critical

Passion: intense or overpowering emotion.

And therein lies the difference between ESO 510-G13 and Abell 2218 . . . a collection of galaxies that all move at the same rate and intensity, and therefore pose no threats to each other. 2218 has no passion. 510-G13 reeks of it.

Want to change minds, beliefs, get your readers to begin questioning the status quo? Write with passion. This doesn’t mean writing on a grander scale. It does mean writing in more intense colors. Not falling into the trap of spilling reds across the canvas for effect, but creating characters that care about what they are doing, whose motivations are strong and true, who – no matter what side of the story they’re on – have something real vested in the outcome. Write a story that reflects these things and you’re beginning.

But just beginning.

Fellow Storytellers contributor Dave Wilson recently turned me on to the writings of the Marquis de Sade . . . don’t ask, it’s not a pretty tale . . . and in looking at these often absurd, often profound, and always galactic writings, I discovered something.

“Never lose sight of the fact that all human felicity lies in man’s imagination, and that he cannot think to attain it unless he heeds all his caprices. The most fortunate of persons is he who has the most means to satisfy his vagaries,” Donatien Alphonse François, Marquis de Sade

EOS 510-G13 is constantly on the move, expanding, consuming galaxies, filling the space they once held with its uniqueness, its nonstop evolution, the power of its essence. So too, must all writers. It is a requirement of the art that we do not limit ourselves, do not pull back from that which frightens or embarrasses us. Even more, that we do not pull that gift back from our creations.

I have written far less sexual violence in my work than most in my genre. Not because I find sexual violence abhorrent (although I do) or because I’m trying to be politically correct; but simply because it never fit into the stories I was working on. But soon, a new novel of mine will come out that contains several sequences of sexual violence. Because it was in keeping with who the characters were and the story they found themselves within I didn’t hesitate or limit myself.

I have a friend who will not read a book that has a dead child in it; and another for whom the death of an animal – like a cat or a pigeon – is the ultimate sin.

Tough.

If the truth of my story requires children spitted upon pikes, I’m going to deliver that. If the course of my story requires a character to crush a cat’s skull, well . . . I did that already in The Gemini Man. The point is this: as I sit down to write, there are no limits on where I am prepared to go. These are the strengths of Anne Rice or Stephan King; the gifts of William Vollman or Irving Wallace. As much as I enjoy the lyrical scents and visions of Shelly and Keats or Wouk and Asimov, give me the punch to the solar plexus of Van Vogt, or the soul challenge of Conroy, or the inner reach of Herbert.

Crush your conscience, set aside your morality, jail your judgments. THEN reach out and write. And when conclusions become called for, reach them. Through your own conscience, morality, or judgments if you must; through that of your characters is better. But don’t fetter them with any moral or emotional compass other than their own. Let them breathe, live, heal, fuck, abuse, torment, resurrect or strike down as THEY will . . . not as you will, and then, perhaps, you can claim your birthright as a child of 510-G13.

Or not.

The Gemini Man met almost all those criteria, enough so that it should have had a real chance to change some minds, influence some hearts, touch some souls. But after having labored and fought and bled and created my lungs out, it was, in the end, misunderstood.

A Conservative columnist trumpeted it as: “A brave new voice in the conservative struggle against moral pluralism.”

A Liberal columnist called it: “A long overdue tribute to liberal values and perspectives, and an indictment of conservative pseudo morality.”

In fact, it was about none of those things; and when I look up into the midnight sky, I can just see the disappointment in 510-G13’s eyes. And in the mirror as well.

I can’t blame the readers; none of us can ever blame the readers. It’s not and never is their fault for not getting us. It is our job – first and foremost – to reach them, to compel them, to entreat them. And in the final analysis critical and commercial acclaim – while nice – is not the point of it all. Whispering possibilities into other people’s souls is.

And I failed at that, for the most part.

As we will all fail most of the time.

But when we succeed, when we reach that moment of critical mass when what we have to say is what our readers hear . . . my God, how unbelievably spectacular it feels! More than making up for the failures, the near misses, the false shots, the abject shortfalls. It feels as though God has leaned close to whisper in our ear, his lips barely touching as he says: “You can rest now.”

At least for a moment.

This is the end of my first year at Storytellers Unplugged; and I want to take this opportunity to thank Janet Berliner who leaned on me to join up, Joe Nassise for letting me in, Dave Wilson for being my spiritual guide within these cyber borders, and Thomas Sullivan for being a kindred soul. I want to thank all my other partners in this extraordinary enterprise, whether I’ve become a close friend or a passing acquaintance, for the impact they’ve had on my life and writing.

I want to thank all of you – our gentle, curious and so contributing readers - for your comments, probes, stabs, and compliments. You make the website as much as those of us who write here do.

But, as I gear up for year two, ESO 510-G13 taunts me in the night asking if anything I’ve written here has risen to that galactic level that is our duty to at least aspire to.

“Although the dream is a very strange phenomenon and an inexplicable mystery, far more inexplicable is the mystery and aspect our minds confer on certain objects and aspects of life. Psychologically speaking, to discover something mysterious in objects is a symptom of cerebral abnormality related to certain kinds of insanity. I believe, however, that such abnormal moments can be found in everyone, and it is all the more fortunate when they occur in individuals with creative talent or with clairvoyant powers. Art is the fatal net which catches these strange moments on the wing like mysterious butterflies, fleeing the innocence and distraction of common men,” Giorgio de Chirico

Or galaxies consuming other galaxies to make a more beautiful world.

Believe!

Related posts:

1. The Gonquin Table: If The Truth Be Known
2. The Gonquin Table: Friday the 13th
3. The Mobility Of Truth
4. The Peace Of Wild Things
5. It’s not Jazz This Time, but…

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