Manifesto

For years, I have imagined that I aspired to be a writer. I assumed that because I hated scientific or research papers, and didn’t see myself as much of the reporter type, that I would write fiction. 

I love stories. I love hearing them. I love analyzing them. I love narratives. I love learning to see how the little twists effect the final product. I love how the struggles, joys and decisions take the character and teach them more than they could have learned. 

I love reading books and reveling in the authors care in creating full worlds, dynamic and different characters. I love watching movies and forcing myself to not guess so that I can enjoy the unfurling of the plot as the writer wanted. I have as of late been especially fascinated by the storytelling medium of scripted television. Shows like, “Chuck” are my favorite because for five seasons they look at the character of Chuck. I like that I can go back and watch them and see how the writers grew the character. 1st season Chuck looks vastly different than 5th season Chuck and you can go back and see all the experiences written in between changed him. I love analyzing that. 

You’d think, and for years I did think, that loving stories as much as I do, I should be writing them. I have stories in my head that I’ve been working on for years, but they never translate out of my head. With extensive study and trial and error, I imagine I could be a decent writer of fiction, as anyone who studies could be decent at anything. But its not something I find I love. It’s not something that comes naturally.

So why would I love stories so much, but not be able to write them? 

Because composition and appreciation are vastly different. I look at stories and I look at life and I love searching for the little details. The things that make the moment, or translate as significant later on. The more I do this, the less interest I have in adding my own fiction to the world. 

The world has plenty of stories in the lives of those living it, and even in those who have lived. Moreover some of those people are adept at using fiction with purpose. They can craft stories that call attention, soothe, teach, encourage, lift up, bring down, anger, shock, and embarrass. Why would I waste time adding my own mediocre voice of fiction, when what I love, and what I have so far had the most success in, is calling attention to what is already here. 

The story of my own life is what I have written on the most, because I know it best. I hope that I have been able to relate some of my journey to someone else, or help them, or entertain them. However, I also love to write on other’s stories, real or fiction. I move about the world and ideas pour into my mind. 

I drive my 60 mile round trip commute and listen to music, on the radio or in my cd player and think about our perceptions of life and love are translated in subtle ways through the things we watch and listen to. 

I proctor assessment tests for the GED department and look at the different faces around me and wonder what it is that brought them in to this room that evening. What bug bit them that was non-existent in high school? What hitch in their own story disappeared to enable them to pursue this?

I sit on my porch and start to form lists of everything that makes that particular moment great. The way the setting sun slants through the railing, it’s warmth slowly moving down my outstretched legs. The birds, just packing up for the winter and yelling at each other making last minute preparations. The wind flying in over the mountain and making the tall grass in the field across the street shake with anger at being disturbed. 

Why would I want to craft a new world when the one I’m in is so fantastic? I have pain, joy, love, beauty, lessons, anger, laughter, and vision contained within myself. I am surrounded by a sea of amazing and dynamic characters. To create a new world seems disrespectful to the one I am in. 

So will I give up watching TV? or movies? or reading? Not likely. It is fun to appreciate other’s work. It is good practice to try and notice the little things. Film, television, and fiction are all art forms of those who create it. From setting up an angle of a shot, to crafting a conflict, I have to assume that they were being intentional, and it seems equally disrespectful to ignore it. But regardless, appreciating others work does keep me from seeing what’s around me, so I will resolve to spend an equal or hopefully greater amount of time noticing where I am. 

What this changes for those who read my work? Not much. What this changes for me? Quite a bit. I will stop ragging on myself to practice storytelling. I will stop thinking of pursuing that as a career (teaching at least). I will allow myself to focus more on what I love to do. Appreciation and attention. Appreciating what I have been given and the art of other’s around me, and pulling attention to those little moments, little lessons. 

Now, just because I love the word, I will call this my “manifesto” and leave you so I can go focus on one of my self-assigned research papers while the pure white snow floats down from the sky to muffle the death of the winter world around me in clean soft goodness.