transposing from the spoken to the written word
As an introvert, putting words on a page comes as easily to me, if not more easily, as speaking them. My auctorial voice is always nattering on as I go about my day, even when I'm not writing (it shuts up for sex and sleep, but that's about it) -- so when I feel as though I'm speaking well, it feels exactly the same as when I finally hit my "groove" when I'm writing.
By and large, though, people do not speak the way that they write, and for that, we all should be grateful. Imagine asking for something simple -- like directions, or a resturant recommendation -- and receiving a response that belongs in a David Foster Wallace novel! Certainly, one would be more likely to think for one's self, consult a map, and research local eateries, but one would also have fewer opportunities to truly engage with people. That's what superfluous language does in conversation -- it constructs walls out of mere smoke and mirrors, that keep us from seeing, much less connecting with, any deeply personal element.
I read once that the ancient druids kept the fundamental stories that comprised their religio-spirtual canon within the oral tradition, because the spoken word was most alive -- to write a story was to kill it, to take it out of the world of the living. Now, in some regards, this sentiment sums up why writing is therapeutic for me -- if I have something that is burning inside of me, threatening to destroy me, putting it to death on paper is a very, very good thing. (I refer you to the entry from April if you don't believe me.) In other regards, though, there are stories that have been passed down through my family that I want to bring to and keep in life upon the page, before I forget any more of them, and it is incredibly frustrating to see how flat they are on the page. How do I capture, in words, the tone of my father's voice, his facial expressions, his body language, as he describes driving across town with a psychotic cat latched onto his scalp? That story, by it's very nature, can not be boring! Well, it can, but only because I suck at answering my own question.
But maybe the value of oral tradition isn't in the message, but in the telling of the story. I don't remember many details from the stories my great-aunt Mimi told me in my early childhood, but I do remember, in vivid detail, how Mimi's face would light up, eighty years or so would fall away, and she'd relive being eleven years old, pushing her baby sister's stroller down the sidewalks of Nashville as I sat on her lap.
By and large, though, people do not speak the way that they write, and for that, we all should be grateful. Imagine asking for something simple -- like directions, or a resturant recommendation -- and receiving a response that belongs in a David Foster Wallace novel! Certainly, one would be more likely to think for one's self, consult a map, and research local eateries, but one would also have fewer opportunities to truly engage with people. That's what superfluous language does in conversation -- it constructs walls out of mere smoke and mirrors, that keep us from seeing, much less connecting with, any deeply personal element.
I read once that the ancient druids kept the fundamental stories that comprised their religio-spirtual canon within the oral tradition, because the spoken word was most alive -- to write a story was to kill it, to take it out of the world of the living. Now, in some regards, this sentiment sums up why writing is therapeutic for me -- if I have something that is burning inside of me, threatening to destroy me, putting it to death on paper is a very, very good thing. (I refer you to the entry from April if you don't believe me.) In other regards, though, there are stories that have been passed down through my family that I want to bring to and keep in life upon the page, before I forget any more of them, and it is incredibly frustrating to see how flat they are on the page. How do I capture, in words, the tone of my father's voice, his facial expressions, his body language, as he describes driving across town with a psychotic cat latched onto his scalp? That story, by it's very nature, can not be boring! Well, it can, but only because I suck at answering my own question.
But maybe the value of oral tradition isn't in the message, but in the telling of the story. I don't remember many details from the stories my great-aunt Mimi told me in my early childhood, but I do remember, in vivid detail, how Mimi's face would light up, eighty years or so would fall away, and she'd relive being eleven years old, pushing her baby sister's stroller down the sidewalks of Nashville as I sat on her lap.
posted by Beth | 6:30 AM
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