Unhappy Endings

Sometimes, I go back and reread some of my writing, and I come away thinking that my themes might be construed as sad or even depressing. While I am fully aware of it this, and many cases, it's not actually intentional. But as most writers know, a piece of writing can start out in one tone and quickly veer off into another, with no help whatsoever from the writer other than what his or her unconsciousness contributes along the way.


Water flows downhill and always seeks those egresses that are below it. That doesn't mean that some of kind of deterioration happens along the way. In actuality, the water may even become enriched by whatever it picks up along its downward fall across rapids or as it snakes its way through woods that crest a hillside. Story plots often behave in much the same way, quickly taking a plunge at the first sign of a low spot, and then rushing on toward the sea, which, in this case, is represented by a stack of pages or a computer file that constitutes the whole body of thought gathered finally in one place.


Here's the thing: writers are constantly advised to "write what they know." And in my case, there haven't been all that many happy endings in my life to draw experience from. So how can I write about something that I'm not all that familiar with? Sadness, on the other hand, in the form of suffering, death, disruption, abandonment, rejection, tragedy, and any other manifestation of loss in between...yeah, THOSE I know a lot about, so it's not surprising to me that my stories would assume an aura of loss, sadness, or misfortune.


For a writer, the actual act of writing is an exercise in exploration. For as we type or write, we discover new things about the world, about other people, and about ourselves. Sometimes, too, we remember things that we might have thought long buried and forgotten. But the act of writing requires an expenditure of energy, and energy, as we all know, is everywhere at once, filling the large and the smaller spaces equally, and in this case, insinuating itself into the tiniest crevices between our buried thoughts and impressions, often bringing them back into the light without warning.


How often  have I sat here writing when, all of a sudden, a sentence or a phrase pops out at me in full print that I didn't consciously compose but that seemed to materialize out of nowhere, small shards of memories I'd suppressed or that were crowded out by more immediate concerns. And if they happen to be sad, then that's where the catalyst of that phrase lived for a very long time before it decided to become part once again of a greater whole.


While writers expound often upon events of the past, the actual act of writing is happening now, in real time, giving new life to old impressions and bits of tales generated from experience and perception. I envy anyone who is able to tack a happy ending on to his or her stories. But I suspect that, more often than not, loss and sadness, which seem to leave much deeper and more indelible tracks on the human soul, are much more familiar to a much larger audience.


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An Awesome Mandate

There are as many metaphors for words as there are stars in the sky. No, that's not quite right. But sometimes it seems that way. For are they not individual units of building materials, from which larger edifices can be constructed, larger shapes fashioned? Words, ideas in themselves, could be said to pave a path toward other more complex ideas...Or, words can be pieces of lumber used to support the weight of an ever-expanding story...It occurs to me, too, that words could be likened to the stones in a rock wall, going nowhere and everywhere at once, leading to magical places and things, but without giving away too many of their secrets.


Is that, then, the writer's job, to link those building units into something recognizable and thought-provoking, intriguing and, hopefully, inspiring? Thus, are writers not builders as well as word-linkers, or jewelry-makers, joining bright baubles together...or weavers, intertwining thoughts into larger tapestries? And are not words as organic as the minerals that flow up from the soil through a tree's roots and gives it life and vigor and longevity?


Words ARE eternal...once spoken, they cannot be unspoken...once written, cannot be unwritten but merely destroyed or refashioned, through the vestiges of them that remain in the minds of those who remember such things...And are not stories the things we all build through all our lives, and that await the teller or the chronicler to render them eternal?


An awesome mandate that...


https://www.amazon.com/Rachel-Lovejoy/e/B00JJ259DS/

What Stories Are Made Of

Words are magical things. In them reside all our experiences, our thoughts, ideas, hopes, dreams, fears, and joys. In other words (pun intended), "words" sum up who we are. And there isn't a single word in any language that cannot stand on its own without needing to be embellished by others. All words began as sounds, and a sound can convey a great deal of meaning and emotion without any explanation at all.


We take words so much for granted. For in the course of a single day, we read, shape our thoughts, hear, or speak millions of them without giving a single thought to the role that each one of them plays in that process. And any writer knows that any piece of writing begins with a single idea, and that idea can be reduced to a single word. For even the most seemingly inconsequential word has meaning and purpose, on its own and when used with others, and not just nouns, verbs and adjectives. Articles, conjunctions, and prepositions all imply something by their very nature and how they are used in sentences. And even when stated alone, a single article--the, for example--has more to say than is intially apparent.


At its most fundamental, we know that "the" is an article. By itself, it means nothing, or does it? For the moment we say it, once, twice, three times, we realize that it DOES say something by implication. "The" immediately implies the need for another word, but what is that word? For starters, the choice of whatever word it implies is left entirely to the speaker or the writer. Thus, the word "the" opens up a possibility, an outcome, the existence of an object that the writer or speaker will eventually elaborate upon. From that point on, whatever new word that is associated with "the" will assign it a whole new meaning and purpose.


Now let's take a very familiar noun: cat. As soon as we hear, say, or write the word, we know instantly what we're referring to, for the word's basic meaning unstructs as to its attributes. So right away, we know we're not dealing with a dog, an elephant, or a snake. So that shifts our focus from all other creatures and onto a cat. Then, our minds take over, and we start remembering what we know about cats, which in some cases is more or less than others do. But we all know something, and that is what we bring to our understanding of the word "cat."


The natural question that follows is thus, "What about the cat?" This is where the author's or speaker's mind kicks in and starts attributing characteristics to the cat, and that is how ideas come together, through an immutable law of attraction. In order to grow in meaning, a single word must attract others or die. But it's not like a tree absorbing nutrients from the soil. It's more like one snowflake attracting others until it is no longer a single flake but an entire snow bank that has to be shovelled. Or to use a more fitting analogy--one building block is relatively useless unless others are added to it, which ultimately results in some sort of structure.


That is what writing is--starting with one word, one idea, and then adding others to it until it eventually takes on a life of its own as an entirely different entity from the one that gave it life. And in that way, writing is also a metaphor for everything that exists in this world that got its start in the very same way.


https://www.amazon.com/Rachel-Lovejoy/e/B00JJ259DS