Just (can't be) Right

There are some things we've been told enough times that we just accept them as truth. But some of them clearly don't add up, and now that I'm noticing the discrepancies, it is hard to know which parts of our received wisdom can really be trusted. I'm talking, of course, about the story of Goldilocks and the three bears.

The glaring problem is the porridge temperature. You know the story: the Bear family serves porridge into bowls and goes for a walk while waiting for it to cool. Goldilocks arrives on the scene, sees the three bowls set out on the table,  and promptly samples each one. Big bowl: too hot. Medium bowl: too cold. Small bowl: just right. 

Wait, WHAT!? 

It is the same porridge, in the same room, on the same table. How did Mama Bear's porridge cool off more than Baby Bear's? All three servings started at the same temperature, and judging both by experience and by the laws of thermodynamics the smaller portion should cool off faster than the larger one. Unless Mama Bear keeps her cast iron bowl in the ice box between meals, we've been lied to. It was Mama Bear's porridge that should have been just right!

No doubt you are now imagining some (unlikely and unsatisfying) explanations that could potentially account for the reported temperatures. But before we get sidetracked into a discussion of bowl shape or fireplace proximity, let's consider the other suspect elements in the story. The Bears return home, discover the eaten porridge, and proceed to the sitting room where Papa Bear and Mama Bear both comment on the mussed cushions or other small indications that someone has been sitting, however briefly, in these well-used chairs. Can't you hear Baby Bear's incredulity when he ventures to mention that someone has broken his chair to pieces, right there on the floor! How did Mama and Papa not notice that first?

The same scene basically repeats itself upstairs. Despite the fact that it should be clear to both of the adults that they are dealing with some form of home invasion, they studiously avoid noticing the actual person sleeping in their child's bed, instead drawing attention to how their own blankets have been disturbed. How wrong is that?!

I'm sure that you can see the conclusion we must draw. Either these parents are self-centered to the point of total neglect for their child's safety and well-being, or the whole situation was purposefully staged. Recall that neither parent moves to question Goldilocks or stop her from departing. 

What kind of parents would pull a stunt like that? Apparently they hired Goldilocks to teach Baby Bear some sort of life lesson. Fear of strangers? Importance of locking doors and protecting personal property? Don't go on walks? I don't know what they told Baby Bear afterward, but I am disinclined to trust any moral derived from such a manipulative experience. 

Papa Bear's story is too contrived. Mama Bear's story is too worrying. Baby Bear's story is just not right.

Ownership of Space

1. Spaces are not always used for the function intended by the architect. I'm sure you can think of examples, both positive and negative. Reasons for this can include:
   An inadequate design--the space does not foster the intended use.
   A failure of communication--users do not understand the designer's intent.
   A difference of opinion--users know what the space is for but determine to do something else with it.
   This begs the question of whose vision for a space should take precedence if (when) they conflict.

Both of these points apply to the "imaginative space" that is literature. I'll explore the first today and leave the second for another post.

Point two: Use vs. Intent.
In the context of literature, this boils down to "What did I get from reading this?" vs. "What did the author intend readers to experience?" The interesting follow-on questions are "Should I care what the author intended or is my personal experience independent of that?" and "When intent and experience don't align, is that the author's fault (for not writing well enough) or the reader's (for bringing their own baggage)?" A recent post author Shannon Hale's blog discussed the

The Twelve Days: Partidges and Parties

The third and final article in a series on the Twelve Days festival of ancient Earth.

While the meaning and theme of the Twelve Days focused on the arrival of Santa Claus and avoiding his harmful touch, it must be remembered that the season was, in fact, a festival. Perhaps as an act of defiance-- to show that evil could not intimidate them--celebrants escalated their festivities from day to day.

A popular song, variations of which still persist, describes the increasing celebrations in terms of food, family, and frivolity. On the first night the meal's main course consists of a single partridge (a small game bird probably considered a delicacy). On subsequent nights the size of the bird steadily increases, as does the number served. Two pigeons, three game hens, and so on, until finally there are seven magestic roast swans on the table.

The sumptuous fare is, of course, matched by a swelling in the ranks of those called in to help eat it. While the partridge the first evening was perfect for an intimate dinner with "my true love," the couple is joined by more and more people each night. Presumably these guests are their immediate and extended family, followed by other friends and connections. The crowd grows so large that nine dance floors and, by the twelfth day, a dozen different musicians are required to provide simultaneous entertainment for the gathering.

It appears that an element of gift-giving was also fundamental to the festivities. In particular, the author of the song rejoices that his/her true love presented him/her with a gold ring for each finger of the hand. There may have been significance to this specific gift relating to protection from the coming fires, as there are references that gold rings were immune to all but the most intense of flames. However, it is clear that this spirit of giving spilled over into general expressions of thoughtfulness and celebration. I like to consider this evidence that the human spirit will imbue any event with goodness and kindness, even one that revolves around such a frightening character as Santa Claus.

The Twelve Days: Stockings and Trees

The second article in a series on the ancient Twelve Days holiday.

In view of the looming threat of Santa's visit (see yesterday's article on Santa Claus), parents enforced a curfew with increasing rigor. Children were sent to the far end of the house, preferably their bedrooms, for protection from any physical or spiritual danger. Others also sought refuge, but by tradition one or more adult members of the household stayed up to guard against mishap.

The primary defense against Santa's malice was to set out tempting decoys. Upon arrival through the fireplace or engine room, Santa would encounter flammable articles of clothing, usually expendable items such as socks. This would prevent him from trying to find and set fire to clothing with a person inside.

Another common decoy was the fir tree. Left inside for several days to dry, the tree still retained the appearance of life while also being readily combustible. Early on it was thought that Santa Claus could not resist the temptation offered by the tree alone, but later generations seemed to think something else was needed. The first development was to place, paper-wrapped packages at the foot of the tree. The contents of these packages is unclear and was apparently variable, but in all cases they were items that could be damaged by fire and may have been considered sacrifices to the flame.

The most dramatic move, however, came about the time that the invention of indoor fire suppression made the practice tolerably safe, though certainly still hazardous. To make the tree the best possible magnet for the fire demon, lit candles were placed in the branches and left overnight. With an open flame beside the dry, sap-filled wood covered with pine-needle tinder, it was a  bonfire waiting to happen. Little wonder, then, that when belief in Santa Claus waned this became the principal mode of celebration. The years have seen ever more creative methods of lighting and enhancing these fires, and the creativity has always remained one step ahead of available safety measures. Once again, I encourage all to be vigilant in avoiding injury this season.

The Twelve Days: Santa Claus

The most mythologically frightening of the Lost Festivals is now upon us, and I encourage all to be safe as they commemorate the Twelve Days of ancient Earth legend.  This article is the first of several installments exploring the origin and meaning of the season's superstitions.

The most recognizable symbol of the Twelve Days is, of course, Santa Claus. Contrary to popular belief, the fire demon's name owes nothing to the claw-like hands found in artwork of the mid-28th century. (The name may in fact have inspired the artistic depictions.) Rather, it devolves linguistically from the phrase "The Tock Laws," which laws appear to concern matters of curfew generally, and the midnight curfew of the Twelve Days specifically (see tomorrow's installment: Stockings and Trees). Scholars assert this relates to the distinctive "tocking" noise made by the mechanical clocks of the era.

Santa Claus is predictably imagined in red clothing, symbolic of his kinship with flame. He enters a residence by way of the most fire-imbued fixture. In the earliest times this meant a fireplace and chimney, and later a furnace or cookstove. At the birth of the space age, the engine room became Santa's doorway, though modern non-combustion fuel systems have changed this. Now Santa Claus arrives from the hydrogen harvesters or plasma decon tanks, depending upon ship class and local custom.

Although he enters homes at sites of potentially lethal conflagration, Santa Claus has always been thought to reside in the coldest of regions. Ancient Earth tradition placed him at the northern pole, an impermanent ice sheet constantly subsumed and regenerated from sub-freezing ocean temperatures. Current myth holds that his home is the inter-wormgate void, where measurable heat is a theoretical impossibility. Presumably, this persistence of a fire demon in the harshest possible conditions is symbolic of evil's persistence and the difficulty humanity will face in triumphing over this dangerous foe.

Santa's arrival at midwinter, when nights are coldest, may be related to this symbolism as well, though in my view it is more likely to stem from the fact that this was a time when fire was necessary to light and warm homes, and therefore the danger of fire damage or injury was greatly heightened. Even today, the use of fire in the Twelve Days celebrations is a cause for concern, and all due caution should be exercised.

Fifteen Minutes from Freedom

Note: Written Nov 6, 2010.

My house is a subdued but cheerful yellow, with brick pillars on the front porch. It is at the second speedbump, coming from either direction. If you go east, a fifteen minute walk takes you to this intersection. 

I thought that "Fifteen Minutes from Freedom" sounded like a great name--for a house, a story, a poem, or whatever else. As far as a place to live, it's pretty nice. The house is comfortable, large, and clean. Rather fancy, actually. I am about half an hour away from the Aquarium, ten minutes from the grocery store, and less than an hour and a half from school no matter how late the bus is running).

But all of that stands to change. A week ago I bought a car. Soon, Atlanta will shrink! Previously inaccessible areas of the city will open to my exploring headlights! I will travel to other cities, visit the temples in Birmingham and Nashville! I will shop and date and be on time for my 8am classes! Okay, maybe not that last one. But the possibilities are practically endless. Soon.

The feeling of "Fifteen Minutes from Freedom" also describes my current mobility. I have a car. As soon as the title comes in the mail I will be able to go get the vehicle registered. Then I will have a license plate. Then I will be able to drive. Until then, my Corolla is the silver color of possibility, a sleek spaceship parked aesthetically behind the house. When it becomes the silver of currency, of roller skates strapped firmly to my feet, the silver of "Hi Ho" lone ranger fame, Freedom will be much closer than fifteen minutes.

Snowball

The phrase "a snowball's chances in hell" is a very problematic metaphor. For one, it depends crucially on one's conception of hell. Someone subscribing to the pit-of-fire image would usually conclude that the snowball wouldn't last a moment, while someone who had read Dante might assume that the snowball could last indefinitely on the frozen lake of the 9th circle.

Then again, if a snowball really were to be punished, I can't think of a more appropriate hell than a lake of brimstone, a limitless expanse of inexpungible flame. But damnation is eternal, so even in such a place would the snowball ever melt away? Or would it be always melting, steaming in the infernal heat, but never truly disappearing--trapped for eternity where it least belongs?

Of course, that begs a host of theological questions, such as whether a snowball can possibly be wicked. To all appearances, snowballs lack free will, and therefore cannot be culpable for what they are formed and used to do. And do snowballs have souls? Is there an eternal essence that lasts beyond the impact or the spring melt? And if so, what does that say about those who make, and throw, these soul-endowed snowballs?

There is no time to really tackle these questions, or to point out the other problems fundamental to the snowball metaphor. Because there is a much more evocative image, with a much more concrete answer:

"What are a fire-imp's chances in a snowball fight?"

Simply put? None.

Convict Escapes Through Chimney

Dec. 15, 2010  Wednesday
LOS ANGELES -- A nationwide man-hunt is underway today after three-time convict Nicholas Claus escaped from prison yesterday evening. Authorities have offered rewards for information leading to his recapture.

The prison break occurred shortly after 6:00 pm local time, when Claus reportedly climbed into a brick fireplace near the mess hall. Security cameras on the roof show him emerging from the chimney and clambering into a get-away vehicle that pulled quickly away. Ground pursuers were unable to follow it.

Warden Joe Mohr described the escape in a statement to the press. "It was pretty audacious. I saw Nick step into the chimney and ordered him to move away. He looked directly at me and tapped his nose like he knew something I didn't, then gave with a nod and bam he was gone," said Mohr.

Chief Inspector Robert Helms, who heads the investigation, called the escape "troubling." Helms noted that the coordination evident in the timing of the escape indicates "direct communication, and possibly even rehearsed extraction scenarios." Nevertheless, he blames lax security for the incident. "Why a fireplace was allowed anywhere near the convict's cell is entirely unclear," Helms said at a press conference earlier today.

Warden Mohr has been fingered for the lapse in protocol. "We searched it for tools and weapons when it came through, and there was nothing dangerous so we had it installed. I never thought the fireplace itself could be used to escape," said Mohr. "Besides, it came gift-wrapped." Police have not released information about who might have sent that package.


Chief Inspector Helms has, however, confirmed the identities of two suspects allegedly involved in aiding the break out. "Security footage implicates Dasher and Donner Tarandus," he said, two brothers and known associates of Claus. Warrants have been issued for their arrest both in the United states and in their native Canada. Other members of the Tarandus family, and the family friend Rudolf Rangifer, are also being sought for questioning.

Nicholas Claus, who operated under the alias "Kristopher L. Kringle," was serving a two-year sentence following conviction for fifty-six counts of trespassing. Court records show that more serious charges are still to be brought against him, pending procurement of witnesses. Attorney H. Livingston has previously stated his intention to prosecute Claus in connection with an international smuggling ring once sufficient evidence has been gathered. "Past complaints against him [Claus] have failed in court due to the anecdotal nature of the reports, but we believe we can mount a convincing case based on well corroborated facts," said Livingston at the time of Claus' trespassing conviction. Neither Livingston nor C.C. Moore, who was Nicholas Claus' defense lawyer, could be reached for comment today.

Claus' prior convictions, for which he was fined and sentenced to community service, involved customs and tariff violations, and one count impersonating a clergy during the well-known "Father Christmas" incident. Popular rumors that he also impersonated a saint have been dismissed as fanciful.

The police bulletin describes Claus as a 5'11" white male, 62 years old and 255 pounds with a ruddy complexion and "a droll little mouth." At the time of his escape Claus also had a large white beard and mustache, but police remind the public that he may have altered his appearance.

Police also warn that Claus, who was arrested almost a year ago, is most active during the holiday season. "We ask that people take extra precautions to ensure their homes are not invaded this year," said Helms.

The Serial Reader (III)

This past weekend I relaxed and enjoyed watching some movies with one of my roommates. One was a spy movie, the other an action movie, and both were quite fun. In fact, I was quite impressed with the scripting for both films. While we watched, I commented on the framing and foreshadowing: "Nice set up." "Oh, no! He's going to die? I liked him." "Wow, that was clever." "I didn't expect that at all."

JJ mentioned afterward that he was surprised at how frequently I knew what was going to happen next. (My family has also complained about this sometimes, too, regarding both books and movies.) The interesting part came next. JJ said, "I can tell when I'm watching it which parts are going to be important later, but I never know why they're important until it actually happens." He then asked me if I was able to figure things out because of being a writer.

That got me thinking, and I've decided that the answer is probably yes. A lot of reading and a little writing has given me a sense of how stories are constructed. In addition, familiarity with different genres and the rules governing them is crucial to my approach to books or films. There may be something inherent in it, since I am naturally analytical, but for the most part I think it is experience-based.

JJ, and most people who watch movies, pick up on what the director is doing: seemingly unimportant information given just before a scene cut; focus on a specific character when another in a group is speaking; recurrent shots of an important object. These are good techniques because they draw attention, and there are many more that I don't know the rules for but are certainly written down in some compendium of "how to reach your audience--tips and tricks."

The difference, apparently, is that I have also gleaned some of the rules about how narrative is built. The genres we have are self associating and self reinforcing, so there are some very stiff, though breakable, guidelines that direct their stories. (More on that another day, perhaps.) Most people recognize when the rules are being followed, but perhaps not everyone knows quite how they connect to each other.

I heard of an author who said she didn't enjoy reading anymore because she always knew everything that was going to happen after the first ten pages of a book. I found that very sad, and hope it never happens to me. Even if books were to lose their surprise elements for me (which I'm confident they won't), I don't expect to lose my love of reading, for two reasons. First, I like books for so much more than plot--there are also emotional investments, language gymnastics, and personal discoveries, to name a few. Second, as a writer I am not only more critical of stories, I am also more appreciative. I may be quicker to point out specific flaws in some of my reviews, but I think that is only because I have learned to recognize (or at least assign) reasons for why I don't like the work. Concomitant with this, I have become more appreciative of artistry and of well-executed work. There are tens of thousands of writers out there, most of them better at it than I am, and as a reader/writer I am able to gape in awe at not only the finished product but also the skill that produced it.

Moral of the story: Read more books.
Want to know what happens next? Want to like movies better? Read more books.

Hm. This did not end up being the expected post about chapter break usage, but I think the title still fits.

Practice

Recently I've reflected on how practice really does lead to marked improvement. I've seen it working for professional authors and artists, and I'm hoping to see it work for me. In this post I will refer to specific works, and I hope the authors don't mind my mingled compliments and criticisms

Two months ago I read through most of the archives of the Schlock Mercenary webcomic by Howard Taylor (one of the hosts of the very excellent Writing Excuses podcasts). I started with a random storyline in the middle, then eventually decided to read the entire thing. Comparing the artwork in his first year of strips with those that came later, I was honestly surprised that they were drawn by the same artist. Candidly, his early illustrations were pretty terrible, but it only took a few months for him to develop an entirely competent style of his own. Then, year by year, he has continued to improve and develop new artistic skills. In addition to following the capers of Tagon's Toughs, I had fun watching Howard try out new techniques, and then master them to great effect.

Seeing Howard's progress is part of the reason I decided to draw the banjo pigs. I thought, "Hey, if Howard can do it, maybe so can I." Obviously I'm at the beginning of that curve, but if I work at it with some semblance of consistency, I'm sure I can start to improve.

Another artistic example is the Gunnerkrigg Court webcomic by Tom Siddell. The artistic ability doesn't change quite so much as artistic style. At first he used a very derivitive style that was flat and cartoonish, but he has actively tried new things and developed a skillful and visually pleasing style of his own.

It was interesting to see a similar effect in the writing of Brandon Sanderson, who I have mentioned before as one of my favorite fantasy authors. Though I highly recommend his epic-length books, he has written several short stories, available on his website, that can give you a flavor of his writing. Comparing an early work to the more recent  "Defending Elysium" reveals the same trend. This latter work is a fabulous story that is both well written and about so much more than what happens.

I have been inconsistent in my poetry practice, and more-so in my writing, but even so I feel like I am improving (though I'm hardly an impartial judge). I've begun to sing more than before, and my it is getting easier to hear the parts, and to hit the notes. I hope to make a scheduled habit of these arts in my life so that I not only enjoy them but also get better so that others can enjoy them too.

The Serial Reader (II)

As you remember, last week two weeks ago our hero was confronted by a dilemma: At the end of an exciting chapter should he immediately read on? Or should he stop and give the characters a chance to breathe?


To be honest, I generally choose to forge ahead with barely a pause. There is a degree of self control required to postpone resolution, and that is something that I often lack. If I am reading with other people then the appeal of sharing the story with them will provide enough incentive to wait (though it didn't always--for example take the way my entire family covertly finished books two and three of Harry Potter before actually reading the second half together). I also will wait (grumpily) if I forced to do so by the fact that the next chapter in a web comic or the next book in a series has not yet been published.


This tendency represents a disturbing lack of patience on my part. It appears that I want everything to happen to my convenience, immediately, and on demand. If there is intervening story, I don't mind anticipation and suspense because I am still engaged directly. But to pull away from the characters? Not a chance!


I recently read Brandon Sanderson's breathtaking The Way of Kings, book one of the anticipated ten-book Stormlight Archive. It is 1000 pages long, and I read it in three sittings over four days. Well, technically four sittings since I took a rather extended break for lunch on day two. Not only did I ignore puny speed bumps like chapter endings, but I vaulted across much more functional divides between the novel's five "books" and the "interludes" between them. It was delicious and exhilarating!


And yet, though I was completely invested in the story throughout, I feel like I lost something by reading so quickly. The characters met with obstacle after obstacle over weeks and months. They had to struggle with moral dilemmas, with uncertainty, and with indecision. At one point I realized that in the previous three hours the primary character had gone through four defining arcs, and the middle two had meant very little to me because in my mind he had already moved on to the next and the next. In my eagerness to see him through to the end, I had sacrificed the depth of his experience. I knew what had happened, but because I had not stopped at the book or chapter breaks to reflect, I had missed the impact.


And isn't that what life is like? A whole lot of time passes between events, and we must wait between the time that a decision is made and the effects begin to appear. I have impatiently waited for new chapters of my life to begin, wondering why there was all this empty space before the story could continue. But these chapter breaks are necessary: we must learn to value this breathing space, a new epigraph, and the opportunity to look both back and ahead--even when it takes an uncomfortably long time.


I have been described as a "serial reader" more than once. The name was meant to convey that I move quickly through a lot of material. But there is another, more literal meaning that harks back to the origins of novels. Once, everything was serialized and time to reflect was built in between episodes. I have decided that I need to reform, to incorporate some level of this second meaning into my approach to reading. The reader has a responsibility, in the interest of his or her own experience of the story, to step away from the narrative before continuing. I don't know yet where that balance lies for me, but I have a lot of chapters ahead to try to discover it.


(This post has focused on the responsibilities of the reader with respect to chapter breaks. Authors also have important responsibilities in this, which will be the subject of a future post.)

The Serial Reader (I)

Back in the day, writers such as Charles Dickens released their novels not as books but as individual chapters serialized in magazines. Each month (or, later on, each week) the next episode in the story became available. This was something of a social phenomenon because people would read the chapter and then discuss it with the other literary-minded people in their circles, eagerly anticipating the release of the next installment. Only after the entire story had made its appearance in serialized form were the chapters published together in a single volume.

I don't know how pervasive this form of literature was in the rest of the world, but it soon appeared as far afield as Japan, which had recently begun the Meiji Restoration. In an adaptation, the stories were published not in periodicals but in hanging posters inside of trains. Each Sunday a new segment would replace the one commuters had read the week before.

These are interesting social phenomena from the standpoint of shared experience and cultural literacy, but we are interested in them today for their influence on the reading experience. Specifically, what is the function of chapter breaks, and how important is it for the reader to pause at these breaks?

In the form that we have it now, I cannot imagine anyone reading Oliver Twist in one-chapter-a-month installments unless they happened to be a high school student grudgingly completing a summer reading assignment. I even have difficulty imagining someone carefully going through one chapter every day. No, readers now pace themselves through chunks of material according to the time they have available to read, not according to the author's whim of where to insert chapter breaks.

Perhaps that isn't important for Dickens. At the time his social commentaries were intended to spark conversation about social reform, and the month of discussion about the story between installments was crucial to the purpose of writing it. Today, when many of the issues are considered more relevant to the industrial revolution than modern life, we read Dickens for entertainment or education, neither of which require the same length of time for pondering. But other authors writing for entertainment also serialized their works, so it can't be simply a function of genre.

The genre that reproduces this today is actually television, not print. Think about the weekly gatherings to watch LOST, 24, Chuck, The Office, House, Monk, Psych, and other programs with large followings. My friends like to experience each episode in a group, and even if they watch it separately there is always discussion about the most recent episode and what might happen next week. The regular release of episodes is, I believe, an integral part of what makes the shows themselves. Remove the serialization and you have crippled the genre. Just ask anyone who has sat down to watch old episodes of a show back-to-back. On one level it is more satisfying to watch it all at once and reach the resolutions more quickly, but the show loses something important when you remove the breathing room between episodes.

In books, though, are chapter breaks this important? Sometimes they give you an excuse to put down the book because you have reached a "stopping point," and sometimes they simply give you incentive to keep turning pages. Are you supposed to stop and think about things rather than reading on to find out what happens?

Although I hadn't intended to make this post an object lesson in serialization, it is rapidly escaping the customary length for the blogging genre and is approaching essay-length. So I am going to pause here and resume this discussion in a future post. Will Chris condone or condemn chapter breaks? Will he explain the title of this post? Will he respond to comments and reader opinions? Tune in next time for part II!

Pearls

Snorkeling through Chicago, I surfaced above a pizzeria, deep dish, with anchovies swimming thick as double-crust. Waves of traffic rose and fell, but it was not hard to stay afloat. Bobbing up and down, I watched a school of lunch-hour swimmers battle through the current to a reef-shielded cove: a coffee shop full of languid anemones and slow seastars, bubbles drifting up to tickle the seaweed canopy.

Tacking onto 9th, I kicked out from the shallows. Warm sunlight filtered down and rippled along the sandy bottom, dancing slowly with the kelp and eels. Spying several mounds I dove to dig them out. They were just in reach, slightly above the ear-crushing depth. Two were nothing but underwater dunes, the third a testy ray, fins rolling and barb raised. I swam quickly away and up,  gulping breath from the sky. 

A dolphin pod of leaping taxis passed, playing games of chase and tag, but instead I caught the bus that trundled along behind them, a whale making its ponderous way. When I could see our beach-house I let go of the whale and drifted, letting the tide bring me in. I splashed ashore some way down the beach, nearly to the jetty--farther than I had been that way in months. 

The tide was out and so there was much more to see than often met the eye on wading trips when I had gone there in the past. That was where I watched the careful crab in blue and green strut past an oyster hole. Closer than I had known to look, I found precisely the treasure that I had swum out looking for. 

That is where I found for you this sparkling strand of pearls.

note: I was playing around with inserting line breaks to make it poem-esque. How do you think it works as a prose piece?

Once Upon a Time

I recently read two books of poems by Naomi Shihab Nye. She has a beautiful style that paints personalities in just a few words. She writes about the beauty of life and the difficulties of human relationships. She speaks for her subjects with optimism and sentimentality, using free verse.

I also employ quite a bit of free verse in my poetry, and I've noticed that when you take out the line breaks it becomes difficult to distinguish a free verse poem from regular old prose. Jack, the poet in Love That Dog, read a famous poem and said,

     If that is a poem . . .
     then any words
     can be a poem.
     You've just got to
     make
     short
     lines.

It turns out, Jack was wrong. But why? What makes Nye's poems poetic? It's not just the great metaphors, though I love her imagery. It's not the introspection--prose can do that. It is, I think, in the efficiency of her words: they fit a huge amount of story into a minimum of plot.

If you are confused by that sentence, you aren't alone. Until a month ago I'd never considered that story and plot are not the synonyms we so often mistake them for. Consider, for example, this plot synopsis of a well-known play:

"After his father's ghost instructs him to kill his uncle (who committed regicide and married the queen), a young prince thinks aloud a lot and verbally abuses his girlfriend. Both of them and their families die."

Although trite, that actually does sum up Hamlet quite well. Even if I extended the synopsis to explain all of the events and characters, you would still only have the plot of Shakespeare's most famous work. What happens is important, but much less important than how those happenings influence Hamlet and company. The story is not about what occurs but about the people involved. Hamlet is amazing because of the people in it, not because of the sword fighting or the suspense or the ghost. Story contains the character arcs and their interactions, the elements of humanity that have nothing to do with Denmark and everything to do with being and not being.
(For more trite plot summaries, see this blog post by Shannon Hale).

There are these two elements, then, that go into a work. Assuming that both are good quality, the balance determines the genre of writing. More story than plot? It's a poem. About equal? It's a good book. More plot than story? Good fun escapism. (My obviously oversimplistic definition doesn't apply to all poetry, of course. Some of it is still about the sound of words and the richness of images.)

Plot can be exciting, but story is what ignites our imaginations, story is what powers our personalities, and story is, in the end, what we love.

Extended Metaphor

Life is a box of chocolates:

You open it and never know what you're gonna get.

There is some sort of code in the swirls and stripes of drizzled chocolate, that ought to tell you what each piece is before you bite it. But you are so eager to taste it that you pop it into your mouth without taking time to remember the shape, the pattern, the texture. So then it's delicious - or sometimes not - and hardly ever what you expected.

The next is the same.

Sometimes you have a bad experience with mocha or burnt toffee, so you spit it out and grimace at the flavor stuck to your teeth, and you try to remember for next time. But when next time comes and you know you want to avoid the icky ones, you stare at them for a while trying to puzzle out the meaning behind the swirls and stripes. You struggle to recall the last mistake, wondering what it was you did wrong last time.

Usually you're lucky enough to get truffle or orange, mint or vanilla cream. But even when they taste good you sit there and puzzle about the center, wondering what on earth nougat is made of.

Spring, 2009