You Should Try A Story Night With Your Family

Rachel stood by the Audi watching Raylan, Raylan the show. Watching him facing Coover holding the bright-metal piece at his leg. Watched Coover swing the rat by the tail and let it go and saw it coming at her to land on the hood of the Audi. Rachel didn't move. Raylan didn't either, didn't glance around. 
But said, "Coover, you throw a dead rat at my car. What're you trying to tell me?" 
Rachel unsnapped the holster riding on her hip. 
Coover said, "Take it any way you want, long as you know I'm serious." 
"You're telling me you're one mean son of a bitch," Raylan said to his face. "You know how many wanted felons have given me that look? I say a thousand I know I'm low. Some turn ugly as I snap on the cuffs; they're too late. Some others, I swear, even try to draw down on me. All I'm asking, how'd you come to take Angel's kidneys?"
 
The world of Elmore Leonard is as rich in characters and story as it is witty dialogue. I settled on this classic from his novel Raylan because I read it in January. You may be familiar with it because FX created the TV series called Justified based on his main character, Raylan Givens. 

Leonard was a master at dialogue. He had a way of making you forget you were reading. It's easy to spend three hours turning pages right in the middle of the action without noticing.  

Good writing does that to you. It pulls you in and doesn't let go. I haven't particularly enjoyed reading fiction for most of my life. I considered myself far too serious a person to waste my time on silly fiction. 

Then at the tender age of twenty-eight Lee Child and his iconic character, Jack Reacher came into my life. Here was a larger than life character that reminded me of my uncle George, right down to the former Army MP background. It grabbed me by the throat and pulled me into the world I'd long abandoned. 

I read over 30 fiction books that year. I was back in the fiction reading business. I've sought to make up for lost time since turning the page on my first Reacher novel two years ago. From The Hobbit to Harry Potter I've been swimming in the seas of tall tales and loving every second of it. It's brought color and light to my reading life, where once were only the dreary shadows of the real world. 

It's all about storytelling for me. I enjoy getting lost in the sights, sounds, and memories of another. Be it a novel, short story or fireside chat, storytelling is a tradition we've lost touch with over the years. 

How often to we gather around the living room for no other purpose but the telling of stories? We're usually talking over one another and half listening as we go. That's why I'm especially grateful for a tradition Hannah's family started this past year called Story Night. 

It's exactly what you're picturing. After dinner, we'll gather around with coffee, water or hot tea and take turns telling tales. This isn't the free for all you're most likely picturing. It's an ordered process designed to help us learn to not simply to tell good stories, but to listen.  

Here are the ground rules: 

1.) Participation is voluntary - If someone doesn't want to share a story, they're welcome to skip doing so.  
2.) The speaker has the floor - Whoever is talking has the floor, no exceptions. They have 5-10 mins of uninterrupted time to share their story. It can be a story they've prepared, a song, or a tale from their childhood. What matters is that while they are talking, no one else may jump in. 
3.) Questions are welcome - After the storyteller has completed their turn, others in the room can ask as many questions as they want. Sometimes this time is even better than the stories. You get to hear all the behind the details on how they chose their topic and why. 
 
Story Night is one of my favorite nights. Sometimes I read something I've written and other times I don't prepare anything at all. It's a beautiful tradition full of fun, and laughter that I can't get enough of.   

Story: The Amazing Fall of '69

October 1969, New York City

Patrick stood there stunned, not moving a muscle. He was still breathing as well as he could tell. He wasn’t dead, he was sure of that—or else heaven looked a lot like his favorite bar on 53rd & Lex. He grabbed an arm hair and gave it a yank, he wasn’t dreaming either. No, it had to of happened. The Mets had won the series. 

Patrick loved baseball and started following the team in ‘62. After averaging over a hundred losses per year since he hadn’t entered the summer with high hopes. Each night he’d meet Bill, Stu, and Bruce at his favorite pub on 53rd to have a few beers and watch the game. The Mets usually resembled the Three Stooges more than a professional baseball team. 

“How,” Patrick had said, “could they be this bad?” 

“It’s like they do this stuff on purpose,” Stu said, “every night for the past six years. They ain’t never had a winning season.” 

“Yeah and it looks like, they won’t have one this year either.” Bill now chiming in, “I’ll have another beer Tommy, maybe it’ll help me forget all about this team.” 

“Remind me.” Bruce said, “Why we watch these guys instead of the Yankees? The Yanks at least win.” 

“Didn’t they win,” Patrick asked, “back to back titles back a few years back?” 

“In ‘61 & ‘62 yeah,” Stu replied, “but, they ain’t our team. You don’t go jumping from team to team, they got a name for fans like that you know.” 

“Uh huh, but this team stinks.” Bruce said, “I mean really stinks. They don’t have a shot at ever winning a title.”  

“Maybe, but they're at least close to .500 this year.” Tommy the bartender jumping in, “Better than last year.” 

Patrick and the guys had gone back and forth all summer. One thing they had all been sure of, was that the Mets weren’t ever going to win the series. How could they? The Mets had exactly zero winning seasons, since arriving in Queens. Most of the way through the summer it didn’t look like this year would be any different. Forty-one games into the season, the team was hovering around .500 with an 18-23 record. 

“Go, go, go!,” Patrick said, “They're waiving him around third. He’s gonna score, he’s gonna score. The throw. The slide. YES, YES, SAFE!” 

“Ahhh! I can’t believe it.” Stu said, “I simply can’t believe it.” 

Everyone else in the bar was going as crazy. The Mets had managed to pull off what seemed impossible two weeks earlier, they’d started winning. In the intervening weeks between that late night and the bar and this one, they’d won eleven in a row. 

“It’ll never last.” Bruce said, “They’ll find someway to ruin it, always do.” 

“Oh, shut up Bruce,” Stu said, “You don’t have to be such a downer. Enjoy the damn streak like the rest of us.”

“Just watch,” Bruce replied, “Wait and see.” 

“I for one,” Patrick said, “Don’t care if they lose the rest of the way. I’m going to enjoy this one. It’s the most remarkable turn around I think I’ve ever seen.”        

The guys would continue to argue back and forth over the several weeks. That’s what men do in bars. It’s crazy what a little winning will do though. They had a new pep in their step, and something positive to look forward to each night at the bar.

Warner's Blank Page

It was 5:45 in the morning, and Warner was sitting in front of his computer screen. He was staring at the screen without the faintest idea what to say. What seemed like hours past and still he remained glued to his seat, eyes fixed on the blinking line and not a clue what to write.

Warner was all too familiar with writer’s block or whatever it was that brought his free flow of words and ideas to a sudden halt. In fact, he’d just written a piece detailing the methods of various authors in dealing with the inevitable dry spell. It was all fresh in his mind.

He knew writers like Steven Pressfield, William Zinsser, or Maya Angelou would tell him to just write something. They’d tell him to keep showing up every single day and putting words on the page. They’d tell him not to worry about what he was producing, but to focus on the simple act of putting whatever was swimming around in his brain, down on the page.

Warner new these things and yet in his chair he remained, still, silent, not making a move, not typing a single word. What was wrong with him? He had the solution to his problem, all he needed to do was act.

He could feel the tension, anxiety and anger building up within. His chest was tight, his heart was pounding and his mind felt like a giant nutcracker had him in its grasp. It was quickly becoming something beyond his control and the cold logic of his mind gave way to wild, untamed emotions. As the heat became too much to bear, Warner exploded with fury.

He grabbed the nearest object to him and flung it across the room. Luckily the nearest object was a fat yellow highlighter he had left out the night before, and his unplanned and uncontrolled outburst only resulted in that fat little highlighter hitting the couch. The fury of his throw and the meager result only served to insight greater angst and frustration in Warner. He didn’t know what to do, he was at his wit's end.

And then in an act of defiance he started detailing his morning and frustrations. One paragraph, then two and so on he went, until he was staring at three pages of output. The dam had broken and Warner was now back in the saddle again. He was elated and couldn’t believe his production after such a putrid beginning to the day.

Not too long after completing his task, he looked up to see his wife. Unaware of the struggle Warner had endured and the painstaking process he’d underwent to accomplish his writing goal that day, she simply smiled and said good morning. Warner sprang from his seat, kissed his wife and gleefully walked to the kitchen with her.

He told her all about his battle with his inner critic and the hills he had to climb in getting pen to page. And then in the midst of it all, a strange and terrifying notion struck him, what if it happened all over again tomorrow? Would he be able to push through? Would he be able to stare down the monsters within a second time?

In less than 24 hours he would be sitting in front of the same screen, staring at the same blank page, asking inspiration to strike once more. It plagued him all through the day. There was rarely a moment in which it wasn’t lurking in the back of his mind, almost as if it were taunting him.

He awoke the next day and headed straight for his desk. Armed with nothing more than a hot cup of coffee and an eagerness to see what today’s session would hold. He sat down and to his surprise his inner demons we're if anything punctual. Warner was depressed. After all he’d been through the previous morning, he thought his troubles might be over, they weren’t.

It was a new day, requiring new courage. When he realized this, he started pounding the keyboard, stroke by stroke until his goal for the day was done. He’d done it once more. He showed up and so did the muse. He may have been a little tardy but better late than never.

Warner was beyond excited, two days in a row—he was making progress. His wife walked into the room and the conversation repeated itself, along with the nagging self doubt that plagued him.

Such is the story of Warner’s life. He is a writer and each day is a grind. He has to show up each and every day ready to do battle with his inner doubts until his muse comes riding on a white horse to rescue him.

His muse doesn’t call ahead or make an appointment. He doesn’t let Warner know when of if he’ll strike. He works by his own rules, and on his own schedule. Warner has zero control over him, but he can control himself. He can show up each and every day. He can get up everyday and plop himself down in front of a new blank page. Everyday won’t go smoothly and there will be too many days where he feels like a failure, but if he keeps showing up again and again at least his muse will know where to find him. Showing up as they say, is half the battle.   

Tall Tales, Spinning Yarns & Telling Stories

Writing is nothing more than thinking another’s thoughts after them. Perhaps it's for the second time, but more often than not, it’s for the hundredth time. Writers rarely get it right the first time. They plod, meander and sometimes even stagger from time to time. It’s hard stuff. They agonize over word choices, sentence structure, and every detail of how they’re communicating. They wrestled their scattered thoughts into submission and trapped them on paper and you’re now getting to come along for the ride.

Isn’t it fun to set off without a destination in sight and nothing to guide but the moonlight above? You get to hop in the car and drive fast, for the thrill of it all. You don’t have to worry about the road, pack a lunch or pay for gas. You simply have to hang on tight as you turn page after page. One moment you’re cruising down the 101, beach on your left taking in the beauty of another sunset, and the next you’re soaring through the clouds on a jet bound for a far off destination.

Have you paused to think about how magical it all is? Somewhere on this scattered mess of a planet, another human sat down to put ink on page to create the very thing in your hand that’s transporting you all over the universe without your ever having moved. To top it all off, it’s putting ideas in your head. Silently, and unnoticed it’s at work causing thoughts, emotions and all manner of things to come bubbling to the surface. Perhaps you’ll dream about some adventure you joined because of a good piece of writing.  

Imagination is one of the greatest gifts the good Lord has given us, and good writing uses it to perfection. Amidst all the hustle and all the busyness of life, imagination comes riding in on a blue horse to save us. Its tales and adventures pick us up when we’re down, encourage us to try new things, and push us to dare greatly into the unknown.   

The world would be a much more dreary place without it. Stories and books put color and zest into a world often considered gray. What would the world be without the wackiness of Alice in Wonderland, the adventures of Curious George or the triumphs of Sherlock Holmes? What would we understand about the deeper struggles of mankind without Moby Dick, The Great Gatsby or Of Mice & Men. Or of man’s inhumanity to man if not for Anne Frank’s Diary, George Orwell’s Animal Farm or Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird? These take truth, wrap it in language and then etch it into our hearts.    

Storytelling—it’s mankind’s longest running tradition. Man has been gathering to listen and share tales as long as he’s had breath in his lungs. Whether it’s around a fire, transistor radio or farmhouse dinner table, it’s what we do. We recall episodes long past, spin yarns about the victories we’ve won and put lipstick on the underside of life.

Telling a good story takes more than interesting prose or vivid imagery; it requires timing, emotion and rhythm just like your favorite tune. It builds and builds towards the payoff—be that a laugh, outrage, or a tear. As Hank Williams asks the Drifter in “The Ride” by David Allan Coe:  

"Drifter can ya make folks cry when you play and sing?

Have you paid your dues, can you moan the blues? Can you bend them, guitar strings?"
He said, "Boy can you make folks feel what you feel inside?

Anyone trying to entertain and regale you with a good ol’ fashion story is engaged in one of mankind’s grandest ideals. Go along for the ride.

“Stories,” Stephen King said, “are found things, like fossils in the ground.” So grab your shovel and get to digging. There’s no telling the whopper of a tale we’re likely to find.

I'm going to try several new things on the blog this year.  Some of them will work and some of them won't, but we're going to give it a go anyway. Each month, I will share some variety of short fiction with you here. Be it a short story, a scene I'm working on or some rambling prose I found enjoyable to write. Regardless of the shape it takes, or its quality I hope you come along for the ride.