Storytellersunplugged

Frank T. Wydra

Edgar, Bram, Mary, and I are sitting at our usual table at Al’s. The others either haven’t arrived, or aren’t coming. But, no matter. Four, plus Al who sometimes chimes, is enough for a conversation. I’m sipping my Jack-on-the-rocks, Mary’s got her sherry, the others, eclectic in their drink, have fizzes of some sort. The place has its normal happy-hour buzz with the after-workers stopping for a quick one before catching the train.

I say, “What I’m wondering, is why, given that the bloggers on this site are talented story tellers, why has this blog gravitated toward an essay format?”

Bram says, “You think?”

Mary says, “Oh, yeah. My guess would be more than half of the postings are essays.”

Edgar, waving a paw at us, says, “I think you are mistaken. They tell stories, here. Look at that piece Steinberg did on his Mother. As good a story as I’ve ever seen. It had great characterization, a hint of mystery, a solid theme, and enough emotion to make Annabel Lee weep.”

Al, checking to see if we were doing okay on the drinks, pipes, “Hey. I read that piece. It was good. He used literary sauce to flavor a plot point.” He laughs, “Kitchen talk.”

We look at Al. Waxing poetic is not his normal chatter. More often, it’s a grunt or a wink reinforcing some irreverent quip. But, hey, the Gonquin is Al’s bar; who’s to argue?

Edgar, who likes his juice, raises two fingers, signaling Al to bring him a double of whatever it is he’s drinking.

Mary, always quick to pick up, says, “Al makes the point. Stories like that are rare enough to be remembered. Given this group, they should be the norm.”

Always the toady at this table, I say, “Mary’s right. I did a count, and last month only about a two thirds of the pieces on SU were essays or commentaries. You know, short compositions presenting the personal view of the author. Not that I have anything against essays, but, y’know, an essay’s not a story.

Bram says, “Yes, I see that. But, so what? An essay is just as good as a story. Sometimes better. Depends on the subject.”
Edgar says. “They’re different. There is no rule that the post has to be an essay or a story. It can be anything. The whole purpose is to illuminate, to share. The format is up to the author. Besides, essays are wonderful instruments with which to make an objective point.”

I say, “Of course they are. But that’s not the point–”

“Well, what is the point?” Edgar cuts in.

I take a sip of the Jack, then place the glass precisely in the center of the cocktail napkin before answering. “The point is that the people who are writing these posts are story tellers. Damned good storytellers. Somewhere in their troubled past they have come to the conclusion that the best way to convey a message is in story form, in other words by laying out a series of fictional or true events. It is what they do. They are not essayists. They are story tellers.”

Edgar says, “Repeating a point does not make it stronger.”

I think of how many times he used “Nevermore,” but say nothing.

He continues, but now there is an edge to his voice, “Are you saying story tellers can’t be essayists? If you are, then I have a problem with the notion. I, for one, have successfully written in several styles including both fiction and the essay.”

Mary, laying a hand on Edgar’s arm, says, “Calm down, Love. That’s not what he’s saying at all. And we all know you’re talented, you don’t have to impress us.” She rolls her eyes. “Sometimes you’re like my husband, the way he goes on about poetry. But the truth of the matter is, if Percy were on this blog, his postings would have both allegory and meter.”

Edgar politely, but conspicuously, moves his arm from under Mary’s hand. He and Percy have different thoughts on how poetry should be written.

Mary raises her eyebrows for the rest of us. It is not often a man rebuffs her touch.

I, perhaps to break the developing tension, perhaps because it is helps make the point I have introduced, say, “When the bloggers post stories—versus essays or commentaries–it seems, at least to me, that they are at the height of their power. Edgar, you’ve already mentioned one of Steinberg’s stories, but he also did the piece, Three O’clock In The Morning, which was in a story format.”

Bram says, “Wonderful piece. Of course, I’m drawn to anyone writing about the middle of the night.”

“And what about Wes Ochse’s Coming Of Age, the piece he did about the evolution of his son?”

Mary, hand now daintily holding the sherry glass, says, “I liked that one. There was such longing, such warmth, he so much wanted his son to become a man. I could identify with that.”

“Or Skipp’s On Broken Teeth And Salvaged Dreams, where for the pain of a tooth he sells his firstborn. Was that a story, or what?”

Edgar says, “It seems as though you are contradicting yourself. Look at all the excellent posts that are being published in story format.”

I smile a satisfied smile, for my point is made. “Yes, but there are thirty posts a month and only a few tell a story. Only these few string together events while developing a theme, a character, an emotional framework. These sparse examples are memorable not only because they display superb craftsmanship, but because of the format in which they are presented. They are stories. Not essays. They show rather than tell.

“Edgar says, “I found most, if not all of the essays on this site to be both informative and well written. I do not see the point in dictating a format.”

Mary rolls her eyes again. “Edgar, sometimes you are so dense. He’s not dictating a format, only making an observation, as you did in that poem of yours, Valley Of Unrest.”

“That,” says Edgar brightly, “was a wonderful poem.” His back straightens and he starts, “Once it smiled a silent dell, Where the people did not dwell—“

Mary quickly stops him, knowing, as we all do, that he will not stop until he has wrung the last tear from the piece. “Yes, yes, it was. So, will you not concede that in making their points, Storytellers are best served by telling stories?”

He shakes his head, with, I think, a hint of melancholy, “No. No. I will not concede that. Sometimes a story is best. Sometimes a poem. Sometimes an essay. Sometimes a rant. Sometimes a commentary. It depends.”

Bram tilting his head, as if trying to phantom the darkness of Edgar’s mind, says “Upon what?”

But Edgar does not answer. He has drifted to that special world he alone owns.

And so it goes, we sit around the table, drink our poison, raise these notions, flap them in the wind to free the wrinkles, but in the end, it is just talk, glorious talk that serves no purpose but to enlighten. But, outside, it is a dark world.

frank.writestuff@gmail.com
September 13, 2006