Storytellersunplugged

Frank T. Wydra

The cherry blossoms are not yet in bloom, but the air is filled with the heady fragrance of spring. It is one of those sun-ripened days where people would rather feel the soft breeze upon their face than imbibe flowery Gewurztraminer indoors. Understandably, the gallery at the Gonquin is thinly populated, yet the regulars are at the table.

Mary, an eye-twinkle betraying her motive, says, “I understand that those who teach the subject say that to be effective writing must engage all the senses. My question of them is, what, then, are these senses?”

Bram, who the moment prior had been engaging his sense of taste, clears his throat and says, “Dear lady, surely you jest. The five senses, sight, smell, hearing, touch, and taste are known to every urchin. A better question is, to what degree should we, as writers, be aware of engaging all the senses in the words we pen?”

“Well,” says Edgar, “if the development of knowledge stopped with Aristotle, you and those street urchins of yours would be correct, but this, my man, is the twenty-first century. Have you not heard of thermoception, nociception, equilibrioception, and, proprioception, the ability to sense heat, pain, balance, and space? All are now considered distinct human senses.”

Papa grunts, and waves his unlit cigar. “Too complex, too complex. What Mary has asked about relates to writing, not science. For my money it is good enough to let the reader see the sun set, smell the manure, hear the loon cry, touch the silky dew on a summer morning, and linger over the taste of fine rum.”

Edgar’s back arches. “And what of pain? Tell me that Jake’s impotence caused no pain for Brett. Tell me that Pilar, with her wicked tongue, caused no pain. Tell me that Santiago felt no pain as the sharks ate the marlin. You, my burly friend, have made your reputation on making your readers feel the pain of your characters, and yet you wave it off with that stinking cigar of yours.”

Papa frowns and looks at the cigar, “This is a very fine Cuban.”

Al, hovering nearby, always alert to the comfort of his guests, asks, “You want me to open the door? Let some air in? It’s nice outside.”

He is ignored by all, but behind him I see a rotund figure with a cherubic face sauntering toward our table, tipping his white hat to those who recognize him.

“Truman,” I say, “come join us.”

“Of course, of course” he says, waving, taking an empty seat. “It is why I am here. And what is it we are having today?”

He is, as he had undoubtedly planned, the momentary center of attention.
Hoping to end the semantic tiff, I defer to Bram’s alternative and say, “We are having a conversation about the degree to which a writer should engage the senses in his work.”

Truman makes a limp-handed gesture, saying, “You know, a conversation is a dialogue, not a monologue. That’s why there are so few good conversations: due to scarcity, two intelligent talkers seldom meet.”

Edgar says, “Then we were clearly having a conversation before your arrival.”

Al places a drink in front of Truman and he takes a sip before replying. “I, of course, take no offense. Great fury, like great whiskey, requires long fermentation.”

Mary says, “Ignore him, Truman. It is a delight to have you here. And, of course, when it comes to engaging the senses, you are the master. Did you not once write, ‘The true beloveds of this world are in their lover’s eyes lilacs opening, ship lights, school bells, a landscape, remembered conversations, friends, a child’s Sunday, lost voices, one’s favorite suit, autumn and all seasons, memory, yes, it being the earth and water of existence, memory.’”

Truman cocks his head and in that insufferably superior manner of his, and says, “It is very nice. It must be mine.”

“What we have been dialoging about,” says Bram, with a wink at Edgar, “is whether the five Aristotelian senses will suffice, or are there other senses which must be satisfied.”

Truman says, “Writing has laws of perspective, of light and shade just as painting does, or music. If you are born knowing them, fine. If not, learn them. Then rearrange the rules to suit yourself. You know, most contemporary novelists, especially the American and the French, are too subjective, mesmerized by private demons; they’re enraptured by their navels and confined by a view that ends with their own toes. To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it’s about, but the inner music that words make. So, of course, if there are other senses, engage them.” He takes a pose that looks suspiciously like contemplation then continues, “I would put emotion in that category. Good writing should appeal to that which is inside a person.”

Papa says, “Emotion is not a sense; it is a mental state.”

Truman waves a hand, “Whatever. It is a thing I do, and sometimes when I think how good my book can be, I can hardly breathe.”

Smiling wickedly, Edgar says, “I think we all pray that someday you may write such a piece, and if it is good enough, the condition will be permanent.

Mary puts her hand to her mouth. Whether it is in shock or to stifle a thither, I can not tell, but she says, “Whether we add Edgar’s senses to those of Bram’s and toss in Truman’s emotions for good measure, I hear no outcry that using them to elicit a response from the reader is venal.”

Papa says, “Of course not. But I agree with Truman, there.” He pokes the cigar in Truman’s direction. “Rearrange the rules to suit your needs. It is what keeps writing fresh.”

Truman, preening at the citation, says, “When God hands you a gift, he also hands you a whip; and the whip is intended for self-flagellation solely. Writing stopped being fun when I discovered the difference between good writing and bad and, even more terrifying, the difference between it and true art. And after that, the whip came down.”

Bram says, “Mary’s question was, what are the senses that ought occupy us as we scribble. This list is good, though I confess I do not fully understand this sense of space or balance of which Edgar speaks. Yet there is another which we have omitted. What of the other-worldly sense, the one some call the sixth sense, that which is beyond that which can be appreciated by the other senses, that which is beyond the individual or the collective self?”

“What of it?” Truman asks, though the quietness of his tone italicizes the malice of his reply.

“There is such a thing,” says Edgar. “I have felt it often, and it haunts my writing. When I wrote Eureka, I described, “’a shadowy and fluctuating domain, now shrinking, now swelling, with the vacillating energies of the imagination.’ Only recently has it been given a name, ‘electroreception,’ a sense discovered in animals, but not usually found in humans.”

Papa’s eyebrows caterpillar together, “Is that where an animal, say a dog, senses aspects of a human’s condition? How they know when you are ill or happy?”

Mary claps her hands and emits a gleeful trill. “I too, felt it when I wrote of Victor’s creation, though at the time it had no name. It was part of what I tried to convey, the electricity that permeates our existence.”

Edgar nods solemnly and has that look of his, suggesting he is elsewhere.
Truman sneering, points a question at Edgar, “Are you from California?”

We are all puzzled, but Edgar cocks his head, waiting for what he seems to know will be a jibe.

Truman, smarmy look on his face, says, “It’s a scientific fact that if you stay in California you lose one point of your IQ every year.”

Though no one utters a word, there is an electricity between the regulars that seems to say, it is good Truman does not often frequent these gatherings.

Note: Most of Truman’s observations are quotes from things he has said or written, and, as usual, seasoned to the taste of this writer.”

frank.writestuff@gmail.com
Friday, April 13, 2007